


An Undetermined Amount of Years Earlier

by Manuscriptor



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Gore (Detroit: Become Human), Chronic Illness, Existential Crisis, Gen, Good Cop Bad Cop, Hank's Backstory, Human Gore, Red Ice (Detroit: Become Human), Sensory Overload, So here we go!, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, criminal activity, look the video game didn't give us much and I can't stand for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-09-05 02:58:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 64,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16802320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manuscriptor/pseuds/Manuscriptor
Summary: Detroit: Become Human didn't give a lot of Hank's backstory. Sure, he's a police officer in the DPD. He lost his son in a car accident. He isn't fond of androids. He's a raging alcoholic.But how did it all end up like that?





	1. Chapter 1

“Android CP400, Register your name.”

“Pongo.”

“Android CP400, repeat your name.”

The programing and gears buzzed and the android in the stand slowly came to life, blinking as it registered the world around it. Its optic centers finally settled on the man in front of it who was giving it a skeptical look.

“Pongo,” it repeated.

“There you are, sir,” the sales attendant said. “Your new android is up and ready to go. Did you want to purchase any other upgrades before you leave?”

“No,” the man said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “I’ll be good with the standard package.”

“Alright then,” the sales attendant said. “Have a great rest of your day.”

“Come on, Pongo,” the man said, jerking his chin at the door. With his hands still stuffed in his pockets, he began walking, not even checking over his shoulder to see if the android was following.

But Pongo was, because Pongo realized that this man had just purchased him and that his programming only allowed him to be twenty feet away from his registered owner at any given point. Any farther, and there was a painful twinge in the back of his programming and then a sharp pain if his position was not remedied. 

He scanned the outside as soon as they were out the doors, taking in surroundings that he had never experienced before.

The outside of the story was sleek white and silver and was set in a small strip mall that circled a courtyard. Trees, bushes, and other foliage were segregated in small raised flower beds with benches and sitting areas. Android waiting areas were set off to the sides, out of the way so as not to detract from the scenery.

The man didn’t give the area a second glance, instead heading straight across the courtyard to where a car was waiting, still parked along the curb.

“Get in,” the man said, opening the driver’s door and sliding in.

Pongo opened the door to the backseat because the man hadn’t given him an indication otherwise. He slid down onto the seat, blinking as the driver’s seat swiveled around so that he and the man were facing each other. As soon as he pulled the door shut, the car hummed to life and pulled out into traffic.

“I’m Hank,” the man said. “I guess we should start there.”

“Hello, Hank,” Pongo said, glad that his owner had a name. “My name is Pongo.”

“I know,” the man said with a roll of his eyes. “I gave it to you five minutes ago.”

Pongo wasn’t sure how to respond. Hank was clearly hostile toward him. He would have to find some sort of way to connect, some way to relax the atmosphere and allow them to connect. His model—Companion Partner his programming told him—pushed him to connect with his owner. And Hank was his owner, so Pongo wanted to connect with him.

He scanned Hank, looking for clues to talk about.

His jacket was worn and old, clearly kept around as functional rather than fashionable, and his shirt on underneath was Hawaiian floral print, faded by both time and use. Hank’s hands fidgeted in his lap, meaning he was used to holding something or having something to occupy his hands. Pongo squinted, trying to think of what a man like Hank would usually have in his hands.

The wrinkles in his jacket and the bags around his eyes indicated lack of sleep. Hank was bothered by something, apparently. And if the grease in his hair was any indication, he hadn’t showered for a couple days either. Pongo set a reminder to get Hank to both do basic personal hygiene and get some rest.

“I am a Companion Partner,” Pongo went on. “I am here to assist you in any way I can. My programming allows me to adapt to your personality and lifestyle so that I am as little intrusive as possible.”

“You’re already intrusive,” Hank said, scowling out the window, tapping his knee with one finger.

“Perhaps,” Pongo tried. “If you explained the situation, I could begin my adaption to make this transition as smoothly as possible.”

Hank glanced over at him. “You wanna know the situation?” he said.

“Yes, please,” Pongo said.

Hank leaned forward, jabbing a finger right in his face. “My commanding officer thinks I need you, okay? That’s the only reason you’re here. I wouldn’t have spent a cent on you but the station bought you for me. Like I need some sort of partner to follow me around.”

“I am more of a companion,” Pongo corrected. “And less of a partner, even though that is in my title. Think of me as a pet. I am here to provide you with companionship in whatever way I can.”

“Whatever way you can, huh?” Hank said. “So if I told you to sit down and roll over, would you do it?”

“Well,” Pongo said, evaluating the space and his surroundings to see if there was enough room. “I am already sitting, and there doesn't appear to be enough room currently for me to roll over, but if that is what you wish, then yes. I will perform any tasks necessary.”

“So my commanding officer got me a lap dog,” Hank mumbled. “Just peachy.”

Pongo wasn't quite sure how a moment equated to fruit but decided not to question it, as the car was pulling to a stop in front of a house. It was something new to analyze and a bigger chance to learn about Hank, so Pongo took it for all it was worth.

The front lawn was well clipped and in good shape, although the flower beds were empty except for some overgrown pine bushes. The pathway to the front door was well paved with only a couple weeds growing through the cracks here and there.

The house itself was well kept and in good repair. The roof was well maintained of leaves and branches, and the siding and brick of the walls was unmarked, at least from what Pongo could see. The curtains in the windows were drawn closed, and only one light was on inside.

“Come on,” Hank said, climbing out of the car. “Or are you just going to sit there?”

Pongo quickly opened his door and followed Hank up the sidewalk. He waited patiently behind the man as he grabbed a key from under a fake rock by the door and then followed him inside the house too. Analyzing the inside was infinitely more helpful than the outside.

Pongo immediately zeroed in on the sink full of dishes and the clutter scattered across the kitchen counter, meaning Hank hadn't cleaned up the place in a while. The living room directly to their left was slightly better. At least the couch was kept clean, although the coffee table was littered with mugs and crumpled bags of one snack or another. A couple beer bottles were scattered across the floor but looked old and definitely far from recent.

Hank walked passed the living room and into the kitchen, throwing his coat on the back of a chair and opening the fridge. He dug around for a moment, past containers of Chinese takeout and old pizza, and grabbed a brown bottle of some generic brand of beer. He twisted it open, tossing the cap onto the counter, and tipped back a long swallow.

“Should I start cleaning?” Pongo asked, deeming that the most important task at the moment. A clean living space would be a good place to start for Hank.

“What?” Hank said, scowling at him.

Pongo nodded and stepped over to the coffee table, gathering up the different bags and wrappers. “Of course,” he said, addressing Hank's confusion. “If you don't currently need me, I can tidy up the place a bit. It needs it, you know.”

Hank grunted at him but didn't tell him to stop, so Pongo figured he was doing something right.

He found a trash can to put all the garbage in and then carried it with him as he made his way from the living room to the kitchen. He sorted the recyclables out and into a separate bin and the put all the dishes into the sink. With the worst of the trash picked up, he began on the washing, idly scanning the house to keep track of Hank. He had gone to the living room and turned on the TV. With the space cleared, he was able to put his feet up on the coffee table as he sat on the couch. Pongo smiled to himself, glad that Hank was already relaxing.

He finished the dishes as quickly as possible and left them to dry in their rack. He left both the trash bags by the front door, to be taken out in the morning. His inner calendar told him that the garbage trucks would be by every Friday at 1.17 P.M. tomorrow on the dot. He wanted to vacuum, to get the crumbs and dirt and dust out from the carpet and cracks in the sofa, but Hank was still watching TV and Pongo didn't want to disturb him. He hadn't been given permission to venture further into the house so Pongo fell onto the second half of his programming: companionship.

He walked over to the half of the couch that Hank wasn't occupying and flopped down, throwing his arms over the backs of the cushions and kicking his feet up.

“A game?” he said, analyzing the content on the TV and quickly pulling statistics. “Ah, basketball. Detroit Gears. They had a 43-39 win loss ratio last year.”

Hank shrugged off his hand and took another gulp of beer. “I don't care about their record last year,” he said. “I care about _this_ year.”

Pongo turned his attention back to the screen, trying to pull more current statistics from his data base. But nothing came to mind and he was left floundering for a conversation topic.

“Last year,” he tried. “They made it all the way to the last four in the NBA Finals. But it was the choice to pull the team captain, Keith Morrison, out due to an ankle injury in the third quarter—”

Hank waved his head and scoffed. “No, no, no,” he said. “Watch this.” He gestured to the TV. “This is _this_ season. Not last season or whatever the hell you're talking about.”

Pongo watched.

Keith Morrison wasn't out on the court. He wasn't even on the bench. Instead, a whole team of new players that Pongo couldn't identify fought over the ball, dribbling back and forth, maneuvering around the other team, and, if the chance arose, taking shots. It wasn't at all particularly interesting to Pongo, so he tried to pick out patterns and repeating plays. It took him five minutes to determine three recurring plays that the Detroit Gears fell back on. And once he had those memorized, Pongo could practically predict what was going to happen.

But Hank seemed satisfied to sit there. He pumped his fist when one of the Gears sunk a shot and muttered curses when they missed. Once Pongo got the rhythm of that down, he identified Hank's favorite curses and expletives and saved them to his database.

“Shit,” Hank said when the ball bounced off the rim of the hoop instead of going in.

“Shit,” Pongo parroted moments after as the player missed the rebound and the ball changed possession.

“Oh, come on!” Hank exclaimed, throwing his hands up as the referee called a foul on a player trying to steal the ball back.

“Oh, come on!” Pongo said, throwing his hands up when the opposing team sunk both of their free throw shots.

“Damn ref doesn’t have any eyes,” Hank muttered, leaning forward in his seat as the ref didn’t call anything when two players collided, making one slide across the floor.

“Damn ref doesn’t have any eyes,” Pongo repeated, leaning forward in the same way as the players climbed to their feet and shook hands peacefully.

Hank paused mid drink to look over at him, narrowing his eyes just slightly. As if he had caught onto what Pongo was doing. He leaned back in his seat, mouth still wrapped around the opening of the bottle as he finished the last dregs.

Pongo leaned back as well and looked at Hank.

“What are you waiting for?” Hank said. “You wanna mimic something else?”

“I was watching the game,” Pongo said. “Was that not what you wanted me to do?”

Hank made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat and pushed himself to his feet, tossing the empty bottle onto the floor. Pongo stooped to grab it and followed Hank to the kitchen. When Hank realized he was there though, he spun around waving his hands wildly.

“Shoo! Shoo!” he said. “You don’t have to follow me everywhere!”

Pongo shrunk back, wanting to put the bottle in the recycling beneath the sink but not wanting to go passed Hank. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought I was—”

“Don’t think,” Hank snapped, rubbing his eyes and leaning back against the counter. “You’re a machine. You’re not supposed to think, okay?”

Pongo set the bottle down of the table, being careful enough that it didn’t make a noise, even though it was glass on wood. “Okay,” he said, hanging his head so that he wouldn’t have to look at Hank.

“Do you,” Hank said. “Do you have to charge? Or anything? I’m going to bed so you can do whatever the android equivalent of that is.”

“I can temporarily shut down,” Pongo said. “And reserve power while I use the internet to recharge.”

Hank rolled his eyes and pushed passed Pongo, heading down a hallway that Pongo hadn't been able to explore yet. Pongo wished he could follow him to amend whatever he had done wrong and makes things between him and Hank better again. But no, that wasn't what Hank told him to do.

So Pongo headed back to the living room, shutting off the TV and rearranging the pillows of the couch so that he could lay down relatively flat. He toed off his shoes and took off his jacket, just so that it wouldn't look like he laid down fully dressed. He shut off the lights, leaving on one above the sink just in case Hank decided to wake up and come out to the kitchen. Then, finally satisfied with the state of the house, he laid down and closed his eyes.

He powered down quickly. He hadn't expended a lot of energy today anyway so it wouldn't take long for him to recharge. At the last second, Pongo set an alarm for himself to wake back up at six o'clock. Perhaps, if he had breakfast prepared and ready for Hank, then the rift between them could be healed.

With that plan in mind, Pongo sunk into dreamless, dark charging.


	2. Chapter 2

The next thing Pongo knew, he was powering back up and slowly becoming aware of the activity in the kitchen. He opened his eyes as the clatter of dishes and the sizzle of meat cooking registered in his software. His mental clock was on time—six o’clock on the dot. Somehow, Hank had gotten up before him even after everything.

Quickly, Pongo shot to his feet, startled that he had somehow been taken by surprise. He grabbed his jacket from where he had set it last night and pulled it on, stumbling toward the kitchen, hoping that there was still some sort of work left to be done. He still wanted to help in some way.

“Oh, you’re up,” Hank said from his spot at the stove. He was wearing sweatpants and nothing else and was cooking a healthy serving of bacon in a pan.

“I’m sorry,” Pongo said. “I meant to get up early and I figured that six o’clock was—”

“Early?” Hank finished, scraping the bacon out of the pan and onto a plate, next to two slices of toast. “Is six early?”

“I figured—”

“That I wouldn’t be up until past six,” Hank finished for him, grabbing another plate that held eggs and sliding _that_ mess on top of the bacon and toast. He carried the single plate to the table, where it joined a huge mug of black coffee as he sat down.

“I didn’t mean anything like that,” Pongo said, now feeling worse and worse about himself. He should have planned better, should have analyzed Hank better, should have read the situation better.

“Do you eat?” Hank said, cutting himself a huge bite and maneuvering it into his mouth. He gestured to the rest of his plate. “Like, real food?”

Pongo choose a chair carefully, taking the one across from Hank, and sat down. “I can,” he said slowly. “In a way. I can eat as in I can put it in my mouth and swallow. I cannot digest food like you since I don’t need to.”

Hank look absolutely disgusted so Pongo decided to explain further.

“I have a compartment which functions similarly to a human stomach although it is not used for digestion,” he said. “When I swallow things, it is stored there until I—or someone else, I guess—removes it.”

“Gross,” Hank said and took another bite of his breakfast.

“What do you have planned today?” Pongo asked, trying to drive the conversation away from himself and towards Hank instead. Plus, he wanted to use this day as a way to learn Hank’s usual routine and how to best help with that routine.

“The store,” Hank said, digging out another bite for himself.

Pongo immediately located the nearest grocery store on a mental map, planning the best route for walking since, as of yet, it didn’t appear that Hank owned a vehicle for himself. Walking at a casual 3.1 miles per hour—converted to 5 kilometers per hour—it would take them around 45.5 minutes.

With the store located, Pongo decided if he could get some sort of shopping list out of Hank. Even if it were a couple items, it would be better than nothing.

“What is on your shopping list?” he asked, getting ready to memorize the items and even plan an optimized route through the store.

Hank only shrugged. “Food,” he mumbled around a mouthful of eggs and bacon. “Bathroom stuff.”

Pongo added eggs, bacon, and bread to his list since that was what Hank was currently eating. He then added shampoo, soap, toothpaste, and toilet paper since he wasn’t sure what Hank needed specifically.

“If you would allow me,” he said. “I can be programmed with all sorts of recipes. Tell me your favorite dishes and I can easily make them for you.”

“I can cook for myself,” Hank said, cutting the last section of his breakfast into two neat bites and spearing one. He gave Pongo a challenging look, as if daring him to protest.

“I understand that,” Pongo said, choosing his words carefully. “But I am designed to assist you. Even though you are perfectly capable of doing things by yourself and I know that. However, if I have nothing to do, I will idle and eventually resort to mundane tasks like cleaning and basic home maintenance. Now, if you want me to carefully pick apart your entire house to clean every nook and cranny, then I can certainly do that. Or, we can put together a shopping list.”

Hank narrowed his eyes dangerously, but, if Pongo had calculated correctly, Hank was more talk than he was actual actions. He may bloviate and bluff his way through most situations, but if Pongo pressed his boundaries, there was little chance of physical consequences.

“Fine,” Hank relented. “Make your damn list.”

Pongo smiled. “Great,” he said. “What do you need?”

“Tampons,” Hank said with a dark glare. “For you.”

Pongo wasn't sure why he would need feminine hygiene products but he dutifully added it to the list anyway. He kept his list from before as well, just in case any of the items could be transferred over.

“And dog shampoo,” Hank went on, still giving him a look that was clearly disdain.

Pongo added it to the list, listening eagerly for any other items that Hank wanted.

“Damnit,” Hank muttered, spearing his last bite of breakfast and biting it angrily off the fork. He shoved his dishes away from him and his chair back. He pushed himself to his feet and stomped out of the room to where Pongo guessed was a bedroom.

Pongo copied the last section of his first list over to the second and counted that as his final list. With that task completed, he moved onto his primary task: find out more about Hank.

Pongo had basic files on hand, stuff that had been downloaded before he went home with his new owner, and he also had the news articles from the paper about Hank. It was all recent stuff, drug busts and gang rings. Impressive on the record of a police man climbing the ranks.

But it was stuff like hobbies, likes, and dislikes that Pongo wanted to know. Stuff that he wouldn’t find in the articles or online. (He had done an initial search already, and Hank didn’t have any social media accounts. At least, none that were active.)

There were only a couple pictures, only one of which was framed and hanging on the wall. The framed one was of Hank, an unknown woman, and a little boy. They were all smiling at the camera, beamingly happy, while sitting on a picnic blanket. Pongo analyzed the background but didn’t recognize it from any internet maps.

So Hank had a family. Interesting. There was no evidence of them in the house though, and Pongo was left wondering where they were.

He stood and collected the dishes from both the table and the stove top and moved them to the sink, running hot water over them and adding soap. If Hank didn’t reappear, Pongo could finish the dishes in an extra helpful manner. For now, they could soak, while Pongo took a look around the rest of the area he was allowed to explore.

Further inspection of the living room, and Pongo found two loose photos of the same boy and woman from the framed picture. One was solely of the boy, dressed in a prim school uniform like from some sort of religious school. The other was of the woman, dressed in a pale yellow sundress, juggling bags of groceries and smiling at the camera, caught mid laugh.

Hank had expressed great displeasure at Pongo excessively cleaning, so Pongo politely restricted himself, settling on the couch to wait until Hank was ready to go to the store. It was a chance to reconnect to the house internet and go over the files that the police station had on Hank. It was all information that Pongo had already downloaded into his database, but it was also comforting to read it all again.

It only took a couple minutes before Hank reappeared out of the bedroom, dressed in a loud Hawaiian shirt and a pair of baggy khakis, stomping down the hall in heavy boots. He pulled on a roughly-used, almost military style jacket and pulled a ring of keys out of the pocket. He sifted through them as he walked across the room, finally selecting one by the time he reached the door.

Pongo jumped to his feet to follow him, pulling himself away from the Red Ice article he had been reading about Hank.

“I can drive,” he offered.

“So can an ambitious thirteen year old with the seat pulled far enough forward,” Hank said, stepping out of the door and barely waiting for Pongo to follow him. “And I trust the thirteen year old more than you.”

“But I am equipped to drive any vehicle currently on the market,” Pongo said, following Hank down the steps and into the garage. He didn't want to sit in the passenger seat just yet. That was like admitting defeat. “I can also drive most heavy machinery and construction equipment. Plus, a thirteen year old would not be of the legal age to drive.”

Hank turned back around, the driver of the door already half open and braced in his hand. Pongo was chest to chest with him, having miscalculated where they would be stopping and wanting too much to get behind the wheel before Hank could.

He wasn’t taller than Hank. But he was only half an inch shorter. They could stand roughly chin to chin if Pongo tipped his head back slightly. Hank was stockier than him though. His time on the police force left him with a wide, power stance and shoulders wider than Pongo’s. His bad drinking habit left him with a bit of a gut though.

Pongo was much lankier with none of the mass or muscle that Hank had. He was designed to not be intimidating and more or less friend-shaped. That meant that Hank could most definitely push him around if he so chose. Pongo braced himself for that option, guessing that it was more likely that Hank resorted to physical violence rather than any sort of peaceful resolution in this particular case.

Hank curled his lips back a bit, narrowing his eyes slightly. “You,” he said sternly. “Will sit in the passenger seat.” 

Pongo swallowed and realized that challenging Hank over this particular dispute was definitely not worth it. He backed down immediately, shifting his gaze to the ground and meekly making his way around the car to the other side. He opened the door and slid in without complaint. He even buckled his seat belt without being asked to.

So Hank had a third option up his sleeve, one that Pongo foolishly hadn’t considered: intimidation.

As Hank manually backed out of the garage and onto the street, Pongo settled in for a tense shopping trip since Hank was obviously displeased with him. Maybe, if he was agreeable at the store, Pongo could get back into his good graces.

With that plan of action decided, Pongo folded his hands on his lap and shifted his gaze to look out the window, busying himself with scanning the neighborhood around Hank’s house. Until they got the store, he would be quiet and obedient, like a good android.


	3. Chapter 3

“Pongo, get out of there!” Hank snapped, actually grabbing Pongo’s wrist to yank him away from the towering display of fruit.

Pongo was just wanting to look at the oranges. Hank seem to be in need of vitamin D, although Pongo had yet to fully analyze his day-to-day diet. But he pulled away from the display, letting Hank pull him in the opposite direction.

“I wasn’t going to knock it over,” Pongo said. He had analyzed the pile of fruit beforehand and knew where the center of gravity was and which pieces of fruit would unbalance the entire thing. He wasn’t going to make a mess.

“I don’t want you touching anything,” Hank growled, releasing Pongo’s wrist as he stomped away. “Just stay behind me and don’t mess with anything.”

Pongo nodded, not the Hank saw, and fell in step right behind him. He wasn’t sure why the man was so angry that he was trying to help with the shopping, but if he didn’t want Pongo touching the large piles of fruit, then Pongo wouldn’t touch the piles of fruit.

It was irritating though. So far, they had been in the store for seven minutes and fifteen seconds, and they still hadn’t gotten one item that was on their list. Instead, the basket that Hank was lugging around carried a container of beer and the odd pack of mint gum. Pongo was itching to actually cross something off the list in his mind.

“Fuckin’ android,” Hank muttered, turning down and aisle without breaking stride.

Pongo stumbled after him, blinking in acknowledgement at the stocking android they passed. The store was staffed by multiples of the same model—SS500. Their appearance was standard, nothing modified too much from the factory version, just plugged into their jobs fresh out of the box. Their brown hair was styled short and low maintenance, their clothes a light green in concordance to their human counterparts’ uniform. Pongo connected with their network briefly, as they passed one.

The small file of information was immediately available to Pongo, and he scanned it briefly. The models were addressed as Peters. They worked on twelve hour shifts since their batteries lasted thirteen hours. They were programmed to find repeating patterns and to organize any items that didn't fit those patterns.

Hank brushed right passed the android without giving it a second glance. Pongo, however, paused, making eye contact with the android.

“Do you know where tampons are?” he asked, hoping to get a sort of layout of the store so that he and Hank could shop faster. 

Peter blinked at him, mentally scanning the store and then smiled. “Of course,” he said, gesturing to a different part of the store. “Just go down this side, to the right, and then down to aisle fourteen. All bathroom utilities can be found in that aisle.” He was still beaming at Pongo. “Anything else?”

“No,” Pongo said, returning the smile. “Thank you so much.”

With one last nod, the Peter turned back to the shelf he had been stocking and continued unloading the cans of soup. Pongo moved to continue down the said aisle, only to see Hank storming towards him, face clouded dark with irritation. 

“Hank,” he said, raising a hand in greeting to the man. “Good to see you. I’ve located the tampons.”

“Don’t touch anything, don’t talk to anyone, I don’t want to know you exist,” Hank grumbled, grabbing his arm and yanking him away from the Peter.

Pongo stumbled as the movement pulled his center of balance off. He quickly righted himself but still struggled to keep up with Hank’s long strides. It took him a long moment for his software to synch up with Hank’s walk and imitate it in Pongo’s own gait. But then he was fine and easily caught up so he could walk side-by-side with Hank.

Hank was still holding his arm with a vice-like grip, and it didn’t seem that he would be letting go anytime soon.

“I thought I should locate some of the items that were still on your list,” Pongo said. “Things that you haven’t added to your basket yet.”

“I know exactly what needs to go in the basket,” Hank said. “I don’t know what kind of list you have in that microchip of a brain, but you can ignore it. I know what I need in my own damn home.”

Pongo reluctantly crossed off all the items on his list, feeling bad that they hadn’t even gotten one. It seemed like a failure, like he hadn’t helped Hank in the way that he was supposed to. He swallowed his complaints though, not wanting to annoy Hank more than he was already.

The rest of the shopping trip was done in silence. Pongo followed Hank obediently, keeping his head down and not looking at anyone. He didn’t lift his head until they reached the check-out, and Pongo only looked up then because there was a Peter to interact with.

The Peter was styled slightly different than the others. All the check-out Peters were. They had a different purpose of course. Pongo unloaded all the items from Hank's basket and straightened them neatly on the conveyor belt for the Peter.

“How had your day been so far?” the Peter asked cheerfully as he scanned the items one by one.

“Just great,” Hank replied with a grunt.

“That's good,” the Peter replied with a smile. His programming wasn't nuanced enough to pick up on the subtle cues of sarcasm.

Not like Pongo.

“Your total will be 36.52,” the Peter said, bagging up all the items while Hank dug his money out of his pocket.

Hank paid with a silver card. Pongo wanted to scan the numbers so that, if needed, he could order things online for Hank instead of relying on a physical store everything the house would need. Pongo made a mental note to gain access to that number as soon as possible.

Pongo collected the plastic bags before Hank could, slinging them onto his arms and easily carrying the weight. When he went to grab the case of beer Hank had bought, but Hank yanked it away from him and was walking away before Pongo could protest. And then they were heading out of the store.

Pongo briefly considered trying to get to the front seat before Hank could but remembered how Hank had reached back at the house. So instead of trying to fight his way behind the wheel, Pongo meekly loaded all the bags into the trunk and returned to his spot in the passenger seat.

Hank glanced at him, a bit appreciatively if Pongo was reading him right.

Pongo smiled to himself and folded his hands in his lap.

“Finally it does something right,” Hank mumbled as they pulled out of the parking lot into traffic.

Pongo allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction, glad that he was able to build some sort of rapport with Hank. But his job wasn’t done yet.

“What else do you have planned for today?” he asked. Once he built up a schedule for Hank, he wouldn’t have to ask so often, but getting any sort of information out of Hank was proving to be difficult.

“I have stuff to do,” Hank said, speeding his way through a yellow light.

Pongo clutched the armrest of his seat a little tighter.

“You can just stay home,” Hank went on. “I don’t want you following me around like a puppy everywhere.”

“Oh, of course,” Pongo said, grimacing as Hank switched lanes without using his blinker. That was blatant ignoring of basic traffic laws. “I can just stay home and clean the house.”

Hank shot him a dirty look, eyes narrowed and glaring.

Pongo pretended to ignore it, staring blissfully out the front window and doing his best to not reach across the vehicle and take control of the wheel. Hank kept swerving back and forth in his lane, not entirely paying attention to the road as he took the time to glare at Pongo.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Just because I don’t want your grubby android hands all over my shit, you can come with me.”

Pongo smiled but tried not to gloat too much, not wanting to ruin the moment. “Alright,” he said, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. “Where will we be going?”

“It's an appointment,” Hank said, returning his gaze to the road and actually using his signals to make a turn. His shoulders slumped down and he sighed. “It's my visiting hours this week.”

“Visiting hours?” Pongo repeated. He hadn't been expecting that sort of answer.

His database defined the words in context of a divorce from marriage. Pongo immediately remembered the pictures he had seen back at Hank’s house of himself and the woman and child. A divorce would explain the pictures as well as the lack if ring on Hank’s hand. While people didn’t always follow the traditional marriage, Pongo knew, a ring was a tradition that had yet to fade away.

“For my son,” Hank said, still not looking away from the road. “He lives with my ex-wife. I’m allowed to visit him every other week.”

“I see,” Pongo said, nodding more to himself than to Hank. “And today we will go visit him?”

“I don’t want you anywhere near him,” Hank snapped, taking his eyes off the road just long enough to glare at Pongo. “I’ve seen what your kind can do, and he doesn’t need things like you in his life until he’s older.”

Pongo frowned. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “Androids, specifically my model, are designed to assist in your day-to-day life. We are not dangerous in any sort of capacity. We are supposed to help you.”

Hank grunted as he pulled into the driveway of his house and shoved the gear into park with a jolt. He turned the car off and yanked the key out of the ignition with maybe a little more force than necessary. He opened his door and slid out, leaving Pongo to scramble after him. He didn’t bother grabbing any of the bags, leaving Pongo to gather everything in his arms and then follow him inside.

“I don’t care,” Hank said as Pongo closed the front door behind him. “I don’t want you near him. You can stay out in the car. Or in the lobby. Wherever.”

“Alright,” Pongo conceded, figuring it was better not to argue over the point.

He piled all the bags on the table and began to unpack all the packages. He wasn’t sure where anything went in the kitchen but Hank had kicked off his shoes and disappeared down a hall so Pongo didn’t have the chance to ask. But now that Hank was gone, Pongo could investigate.

He worked his way clockwise around the kitchen, opening every cupboard and drawer to see how things were organized. There were some obvious things--spoons and forks and knives in one drawer, plates on a shelf next to the fridge, the few coffee mugs Hank did have sitting on a drying rack next to the sink. Other things were not so obvious. Cans of soup next to a box of cereal, the next cupboard over holding another box of cereal and a couple tins of coffee. There was another box of cereal besides the bowl of fruit.

Pongo rolled up his sleeves and set to work on the chaos.

It took him thirty-seven minutes and twenty-five seconds to get everything in any sort of semblance of order. And then he could finally start to unpack the groceries and put them away. When that was done, Pongo did the dishes, dried them, and put them away. Hank had yet to reappear from the back of the house, so Pongo set about cleaning the rest of the kitchen.

Once that was done, he started on the living room although it wasn’t as dirty since he had cleaned it yesterday. While he was picking up though, Pongo came across the pictures again, and this time, he lingered a little bit longer.

The edges of the picture frame were faded on one side from being picked up so often, the oils of the human hand staining the wood. The photograph inside the frame was well aged, slightly faded from time in the sun. In the picture, Hank wore a ring.

The scene was calming, serene. All the smiles were genuine too. Pongo didn’t realize he had been staring at it that long until Hank was clearing his throat behind him.

Pongo jumped, embarrassed he hadn’t heard Hank approach. He slammed the picture back down harder than necessary and spun around.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Hank said, crossing the room in three long strides and grabbing the picture off the table. He looked it over and then set it down significantly more gentle than Pongo had, deliberately facing the picture away from Pongo.

“I—I was just cleaning,” Pongo said, stepping away from the picture so that he wasn’t so close, so that Hank wasn’t feeling so threatened. “I didn’t mean to touch things, I swear.”

“You damn well meant to touch things,” Hank said, stepping between Pongo and the picture. “You touch things when you clean. I don’t want you to touch this.” He gestured around the room, to everything. “No more cleaning.”

Pongo shrunk away. 

“After lunch,” Hank went on. “I’m going to visit my _son_ , and I don’t want you touching him either. Got it?”

Pongo ducked his head, changing his body language to submissive immediately. He didn’t want to anger Hank any more than he already had. “I understand,” he said softly.

“Good,” Hank said. He turned away from Pongo and walked back to the kitchen. He dragged a hand across the counter and glared at the empty sink. He made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, and Pongo winced.

He regretted cleaning.

Hank turned back to the living room, sweeping his gaze across the clean area and then back at Pongo.

Pongo felt smaller than ever.

“No more cleaning,” Hank said with a settling sense of finality. “No more touching things that aren’t supposed to be touched. When we go see my family, you will keep your distance.”

“Of course,” Pongo said. “No touching. I’ll keep my distance.” He tried to look up and catch Hank’s gaze. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

Hank just turned and walked out of the kitchen and back towards the bedroom. “I’d better not,” he said over his shoulder.

Pongo wanted to shut himself down and exist in the dark for hours so that his hard drive would reboot and delete any memories of today.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this were completely canon compliant, Cole wouldn't be born yet, technically. but, uh, I've changed that. Other than that, I've done my best to stay on course

Pongo rode silently in the passenger seat. He kept his hands folded in his lap and his eyes on the ground. He didn’t say a word.

Hank had made himself a sandwich for lunch, had eaten quietly, and then had gotten everything ready to go. They had climbed into the car without a word between them, and Pongo didn’t argue about sitting in the passenger seat.

The ride to wherever they were going was silent and tense. Pongo didn’t want to make anything worse than it already was so he kept his mouth shut and his opinions to himself.

Pongo had been expecting perhaps another house or maybe an apartment, but instead of that, Hank pulled the car into a huge building, like a sort of community center. However, the sign out front read “Local Municipal Care Center” and the flower beds out front were well maintained.

Hank pulled into a parking spot like he had already done it a hundred times before. He leaned across the car and yanked open the glove compartment. He rifled around in the clutter of papers before finally pulling out a tag to hang on his rear view mirror that stated he was a visitor in the area. He didn’t say anything after that, only climbed out of the driver’s side, leaving Pongo to follow meekly behind.

The inside of the center was air conditioned and pristine, sleek silver and white surfaces stretching from the doorway and onward. Several nursing androids worked around different desks and stations, preparing meals and medications—NA600 models if Pongo’s database was informing him correctly.

There were two different models working the center that Pongo was aware of. Different male and female workers that identified as Sams. Their network was closed off to Pongo, so he wasn’t able to get much information besides what he got initially. He could connect to the Wi-Fi network instead, jumping through the building and learning more and more about where he and Hank actually were.

The Local Municipal Care Center seemed to be place for those who needed assisted living. Medical assistance could be provided for those who needed it as well. There were exercise rooms, an eating area, and even a school along with plenty of other amenities. And Pongo realized that Hank’s wife and son probably lived on site here.

Pongo picked up his pace as Hank turned a corner and took a flight of stairs two at a time. They wandered around the second floor for a bit, Hank leading the way as they turned corners and passed different Sams. Hank talked with a couple humans, talking about appointment times and passing over his identification. At one point, Pongo had to step forward to be scanned to make sure he wasn’t carrying anything dangerous.

And then they were passing through locked doors and into a completely different section of the center. The floors were pale wood and the walls were painted warm colors. Sams still loitered at every corner or walked in and out of the dozens of doors along the hallway. Pictures and decorations hung from the walls every few feet, making the place much more homely than the rest of the center.

Hank walked dutifully forward, like he knew exactly where he was going. He didn’t make eye contact with any of the Sams and even if they did see him, they left him alone. After several turns and another flight of stairs, they finally reached a room that was labeled “Mrs. Mary Anderson” but was firmly closed.

Hank paused in front of it with his fist raised, as if he were about to knock but second guessing himself. Before Pongo could say or do anything, Hank was setting his mouth in a hard line and knocking firmly.

There was a pause, and then a soft voice called “Come in!”

Hank pushed opened the door and walked in, shoulders back, overcompensating in Pongo’s opinion.

Pongo noticed the Sam first, a soft female thing with blonde hair cut in a chin-length bob and kind grey eyes. She was preparing some meal in a small kitchenette area but looked up and smiled when they entered. She set aside her mixing spoon and wiped her hands on a dish towel.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson,” she said, stepped forward with her hands politely folding over her stomach. “Cole just came back from school and Mary is up and active for today.”

Hank grunted at her, walking past and into what looked like a living room area.

“Daddy!” a young boy yelled, running out from one of the hallways branching off the space and heading straight into Hank’s arms. “I thought you were coming today!”

Hank’s entire demeanor shifted. His eyebrows went up and his mouth curved into a wide smile. He sunk down into a crouch and opened his arms, grabbing the boy in a hug. “Cole!” he said. “You know I would never forget about you!”

Pongo kept his distance, remembering Hank’s orders loud and clear and not wanting to accidentally anger the man. Cole was obviously Hank’s son, and Pongo was not supposed to touch Hank’s son.

“I learned about dinosaurs in school today!” Cole was saying, pulling himself out of Hank’s hug so he could bounce excitedly in front of him. “And how they ate each other and were bigger than houses!”

“That sounds amazing,” Hank said, still smiling and happier than Pongo had ever seen him before. “Where’s mom, kiddo? Still in her bedroom?”

“I’m right here,” another voice said, and Pongo looked up.

He berated himself for not noticing the woman or the Sam enter the room. The Sam was pushing the woman in a wheelchair, but the woman looked far from weak. Her chestnut hair streamed down her shoulders and her brown eyes were clear and strong. She smiled at Hank, reaching towards him but unable to get out of the chair. The Sam obliged and pushed her forward. Hank met them halfway, bending down so he could hug her easier.

“Mary,” was all he said, but Pongo somehow knew that he meant so much more than just her name.

“Daddy, who’s this?” Cole asked, finally spotting where Pongo was standing near the entrance of the room.

Pongo shrank back, instinctively, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He briefly debated leaving, but his programming kept him close to Hank and he couldn’t just break free of that. So he stood frozen as Cole curiously walked over.

“That’s just an android, Cole,” Hank said, straightening up. “Leave him alone.”

“He doesn’t look like Sam,” Cole said, walking even closer to Pongo. He was still beaming. “What’s your name?”

“That’s because he’s not a Sam,” Hank said. “He’s new. He’s mine.”

“I’m Pongo,” Pongo said, figuring that giving his name wasn’t touching Cole and therefore okay.

“I didn’t know you got a new android,” Mary said.

“I just got it two days ago,” Hank said. “I’m still getting used to it.”

“I like that name,” Cole said. “Do you want to play? Sam never wants to play.”

Before Pongo could react, Cole had grabbed his hand and was pulling him further back into the apartment. Pongo shot Hank a helpless look, wanting him to know that this wasn’t his fault. Hank moved to follow them, but Mary grabbed his hand, holding him back.

“Oh, let them play,” she said with a laugh. “You know the Sams aren’t programmed for things like that, and Cole gets so lonely sometimes.”

Pongo didn’t have a chance to do anything else, because Cole had arrived at a completely different room and was pulling him inside before he could protest.

This new room was obviously Cole’s bedroom. It was decorated with race cars and tigers, flowers and airplanes. Stuffed animals tumbled off the bed and were strewn across the floor, relics and attempts at grasping at anything of comfort in this normally cold, clinical place. A toy chest was propped open in the corner, overflowing with trucks and action figures and dolls and really, anything than a child could ever want to play with.

Cole dragged Pongo over to the toy chest, pulling him down so that they sat side-by-side. The carpet was soft beneath Pongo’s knees, perfect for a child that would tumble and wrestle on the ground a lot.

“Let’s play space aliens!” Cole said, digging around in the box and pulling out a handful of different action figures. He shoved one, like some sort of office in a strict uniform and a stony expression, into Pongo’s hands. “You can be the good guys.”

Pongo wasn’t sure he wanted to do anything with Cole. All he could think about was Hank one room over, probably angry that he was so close to Cole. Pongo wasn’t supposed to touch him, let alone play with him, let alone be in his room. Alarms were going off in Pongo’s coding, but Cole was looking at him like he was the center of the world.

“Be the good guys! Be the good guys!” Cole said, shoving other officers into Pongo's hands.

“I don't think I can,” Pongo said, trying to put the toys back on the ground. He wanted to get up and walk back to Hank, before his programming decided he was _really_ disobeying.

“You want to be the bad guys?” Cole said, letting Pongo put the officers down but immediately replacing them with deformed, alien beasts.

“No, I think I need to get back to Hank,” Pongo said, putting the aliens down next to the officers. “I need to see if he needs anything.”

“Sam is out there,” Cole said, latching onto Pongo's hand as he stood. “Please stay with me! I wanna play!”

He wasn't that heavy and Pongo was made to compensate for carrying loads up twice his own weight, so standing there and letting Cole dangle off his arm wasn't hard. Pongo just made sure not to shake him too much so he wouldn't fall off and he would be fine. Still, it wasn't like Pongo could let him stay there. He tried setting Cole down, so that his feet were on the ground, but Cole still didn’t let go.

In fact, he giggled. “You’re strong,” he said. “Can you carry me?”

Pongo could carry Cole without thinking, so he nodded.

Immediately, Cole seemed to forget about aliens and officers and battles in space. He bounced up and down still clutching Pongo’s arm, laughing in excitement. “Carry me! Carry me! Carry me!” he chanted. “Big, strong android! Carry me!”

“I don’t think I should,” Pongo said, raising his arm and lowering it, trying to shake Cole off in the gentlest way possible. “I need to get back to Hank.”

“Take me to Hank!” Cole said, still giggling and smiling. “Take me! Take me! Take me!”

Well, if he couldn’t get Cole off or persuade him to let go, Pongo really only had one choice. He hoisted Cole into the air, easily, letting him dangle twelve inches off the ground. He then headed towards the living room, hoping desperately that Hank wouldn’t be mad at him for this.

“Mommy, look!” Cole said as soon as they arrived. “Pongo is super strong!”

Pongo nearly wilted under the dirty look Hank shot him but Mary was already laughing and clapping in delight.

“Oh, Hank, he’s such an adorable model. And so good with kids,” she exclaimed. “So much better than the Sams. What model did you say he was?”

“CP400,” Hank said. His gaze didn’t leave Pongo’s and his expression remained stone-cold. “Fowler made me get him. The station paid for him and that’s the only reason I have him. Trust me.”

“He won’t let go,” Pongo said softly, lowering his arm so that Cole stood on the ground and then raising it back up just to show Hank what he was talking about. What he really wanted to say was that this was completely not his fault.

“Sweetheart,” Mary said with a small giggle, covering her smile with a hand. “Let the android go. I’m sure he has things that he needs to be doing.”

Cole reluctantly let go of Pongo's arm and stepped away to give him a bit of space. Pongo was just glad that he wasn’t carrying him around like that.

“Can you stay for dinner?” Mary asked, satisfied that Cole was leaving Pongo alone and returning to her conversation with Hank. “I helped the Sams today, chopping the vegetables. She made chicken noodle soup. It’ll be nice to eat as a family. We haven’t done that in a while.”

Hank seemed reluctant to say yes, but one look at Mary’s hopeful smile and he was shrugging and nodding his head.

And then Pongo found himself being dragged into the kitchenette by Cole who was insisting that he sit next to him and showing him just where that was exactly. Pongo wanted to pull away but one glance at Hank’s stern look warning him not to cause a scene had him snapping his mouth shut and going along with it.

Dinner looked amazing. The Sam not pushing Mary’s wheelchair set the table with three bowls and then set the huge pot of chicken noodle soup in the center of the spread. She set down a cutting board filled with buttered bread slices next, making sure napkins were folded next to each seating place and then stepped out of the way to let Hank and his family sit down.

Cole clambered excitedly into his seat, pulling Pongo down into the one next to him. Hank and Mary sat next to them across the table. Pongo swallowed when Hank took the seat directly across from him. He folded his hands carefully in his lap and determined not to touch anything if he could help it.

“Help yourselves,” Mary said, sitting up in her seat so she could grab the ladle and scoop a generous portion into her own bowl. “Sam always does an amazing job.”

Hank seemed to relax then, losing interest in Pongo as he served himself a double scoop. When he set the ladle aside, Sam stepped forward to help Cole get his food. Everyone helped themselves to slices of bread. They all started eating, and Pongo sat there silently.

He wanted to be good. He wanted to be obedient. He knew he could stretch Hank’s boundaries and in all honesty, that’s what his programming told him to do. He was supposed to help Hank recover and do things he wouldn’t normally do and that _meant_ pressing his boundaries. But Pongo could also recognize that this was not the time to push those boundaries.

So he sat, silently and obediently while the family that he was not yet a part of ate around him. Everything was going just fine too, until Cole stuck a piece of buttered bread in his face.

“Can you eat?” Cole asked loudly, pressing the bread against Pongo’s lips.

“Sweetheart,” Mary immediately admonished. “Don’t bother him.”

“Sam eats all the time,” Cole said, pressing the bread against Pongo’s mouth even harder.

“Pongo is a different model, dear,” Mary explained. “Plus, I’m sure he ate before coming here.”

Pongo carefully took the piece of bread from Cole, just to that it wouldn’t be pressed against his face anymore. He looked briefly to Hank for any sort of help or instruction, but Hank was busy with his own meal, staring down at his bowl instead of at Pongo.

“I can eat,” Pongo told Cole, not sure if he should speak but since he received no instruction from Hank, he could do whatever he wanted really. “But I don’t need to.”

Cole was looking at him captivated, begging with his eyes for Pongo to actually demonstrate.

“See?” Pongo said.

He placed the small slice of bread into his mouth and then swallowed it whole. There was really no point in chewing since that wasn’t necessary, and the muscles in his throat could easily drag down objects of random, irregular sizes just as easily without any worry of choking. He could feel the bread as it slid down, and then it finally settled in his stomach compartment, whole and undamaged, although maybe not completely appetizing anymore.

“So if you don’t need to eat,” Cole said, practically bubbling over with excitement at the demonstration. “Then where did it go?”

Again, Hank didn’t protest, so Pongo figured he could continue. He lifted his shirt and dissolved his outer layer of skin with a touch. With his creamy grey-ish white body on display, he was a little unnerved, so Pongo worked quickly. With another touch, he opened his stomach compartment to reveal the slice of bread. He quickly grabbed it and then closed himself up.

“See,” he said, presenting the slice of recovered bread to Cole.

“Oh, don’t eat that, dear,” Mary said as Cole took the bread with a look of wonder.

“That was so cool!!” Cole exclaimed and shoved the piece of bread back into Pongo’s face. “Do it again!”

“No, Cole,” Mary said. “Put the bread aside. We don’t need to waste more food.”

“Aww,” Cole said, slumping in disappointment but obediently setting the bread on table next to his plate. “Fine.” He picked up his spoon and took a couple bites but then was looking back at Pongo curiously. “Can you eat not-food?” he asked.

“I’m not eating,” Pongo said. “But I can swallow nonedible items, yes. As long as I can fit it in my mouth.”

“Eat a spoon!” Cole said excited, grabbing an extra spoon from beside his plate and holding it up triumphantly.

“Cole dear,” Mary said. “Leave the android alone.”

“But I wanna see him do it!” Cole protested.

Hank didn’t say no, so Pongo accepted the utensil and slid it into his mouth, feeling the synthetic muscles of his throat work around the spoon to force it down. He felt it settle inside his stomach compartment and gave Cole a triumphant smile. Before Cole would demand that he give the spoon back, a sharp ringing cut through the conversation.

Pongo snapped his gaze to Hank, looking for direction since he didn’t recognize the noise, and realized it was just Hank’s phone.

Hank had pulled it out of his pocket and was staring at the screen with a frown. Pongo instinctively tried to connect with its network, feeling its buzz of Wi-Fi but it was currently blocked by a password. Pongo made a note to get that password in the future so he could get to know Hank a little bit better. Hank then answered the phone and put it to his ear with an apologetic shrug to Mary.

“What do you want?” he snapped, still frowning as he talked to whoever was on the other line.

There was a moment of silence as the other person talked. Whatever they said only made Hank madder it seemed because he balled up his napkin and threw it on the table. His frown had officially changed into a scowl.

“You know full well that this is my day off, Fowler,” he said. “You should know better than to call me about this.”

Pongo looked up the name Fowler, searching through databases for someone that could potentially be connected to Hank. He eventually came across Captain Jeffrey Fowler who worked at the same police station as Hank and was his current supervisor. There was background information on him, basic things like his tours while in the Air Force and his different years of experience.

“What do you mean you have a new lead?” Hank said, drawing Pongo's attention back to the conversation. “I thought we closed up that case.”

Another moment of silence, and the Hank shot to his feet so fast that his chair skidded back and then fell over with a crash.

“Shit!” he yelled. “ _What_ happened?!”

“Dear,” Mary murmured, stirring her soup nervously. “Not so loud.”

Hank snapped his phone shut, gripping it so tight that his knuckles faced to white. He was still scowling, but his face softened when he saw Cole's wide-eyed, horrified look.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “That was the station. They—I have to go. They need me for some new leads on a case and want me there.”

“Well, that's okay,” Mary said, pushing her chair back from the table. “I understand your job gets crazy sometimes. You can go.” 

“I'll be back next week,” he promised, bending down to leave a quick kiss on Mary's forehead. “I promise.” 

Pongo leapt to his feet as Hank turned and headed towards the door of the living area. He knew that he couldn’t stay with Mary and Cole in this sort of medical facility, and if Hank was going to be out in the field, then Pongo would need to be there to help him in whatever way he could.


	5. Chapter 5

Pongo had never been to a crime scene before and he had nothing in his database that prepared him for what he was going to see. Hank didn’t prepare him either, only driving along quietly, glaring at the road ahead as he pushed the vehicle over the speed limit to reach their destination faster. Pongo considered saying something about following the law, but since Hank was a police officer and not in a good mood, Pongo decided to keep his mouth closed instead.

The crime scene, as it was, turned out to be a foreclosed house at the back of a rundown neighborhood. The bright yellow sheet of paper stapled to the front door marked the house as unlivable, but it was surrounded by police cars and their flashing lights and several normal vehicles as well. 

Hank pulled up lopsided along the curb and twisted the key off. He jumped out of the car without a word, so Pongo followed quickly after him. 

The scene was loud—people shouting, officers on walkie talkies, alarms and sirens still going off somewhere. Pongo reduced the sensitivity of his ears so that it wasn't so overwhelming but he didn't have time to lose as Hank strode purposefully through the middle of the entire mess, up the path to the front door, and into the house itself. And Pongo followed dutifully after.

The inside of the house was only slightly less chaotic. At least it was only police officers and they knew what they were doing. They brushed past each other, carrying bags of evidence, paper pads of notes, and cameras that clicked and flashed every couple seconds. 

The main scene, the one that Hank headed straight for, was in the living room of the house. The space was mostly empty and the furniture that was there was not that sanitary, but the living room held a table and four wooden chairs, decently clean and well-used. That was what caught Pongo's eye.

A man was slumped over the table, face down in a pool of red blood. His clothes were ripped and worn, half hanging off his thin frame. A knife was pinned through his face, going through both cheeks and stuck in the wood.

Pongo's programming didn't know how to process the scene. It took in all the details and tried to formulate some sort of plan but came up with nothing. The buzz of information and lack of action made Pongo recoil, doubling over on himself and gasping for breath. He closed his eyes but his mind kept replaying the scene over and over and over and he couldn't make it stop. 

The glistening pool of blood. The bloated flesh of the man’s face. The red residue dusting the table, the mark of where Red Ice crystals had been swept up in a hasty retreat.

Pongo’s programming was all over the place. It couldn’t focus on anything so it was trying to focus on everything.

It left him reeling.

“Get control of your damn android, Hank,” an officer snapped, shoving past Pongo so he could get into the living room.

A rough hand wrapped itself around Pongo's arm and yanked him away from the living room. Pongo didn't have a chance to orient himself and could only stumble along after Hank until they reached the outside. With new surroundings, Pongo's system could focus on details other than the scene inside and slowly, he was able to straighten out of his half-curl. He blinked and was finally able to clear his vision and see a concerned Hank studying him, hand still wrapped around Pongo's arm.

“What the hell was that?” he said, brow furrowed down and his mouth pressed into a tight line.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” Pongo mumbled, running his fingers through his hair and trying to compose himself. “I—I don't know what happened. My programming—”

“Shut up,” Hank said, grabbing both of Pongo's shoulders and pushing him down until he was seated on the house's front steps. “You scared the shit out of me when you started glitching out.”

“I'm sorry,” Pongo repeated, embarrassed that his programming had reacted so spastically. He hadn't even know that would happen. “I didn't know that would happen,” he said out loud.

“Well,” Hank said, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he stared down at Pongo, considering the android. “Just stay out here, I guess. I don’t need you pissing off any of the other officers.”

“I’m sorry,” Pongo repeated, sad that he had done the exact opposite of helping Hank.

Hank didn’t even respond, only turning and walking back into the house. And Pongo was left of the porch, in the glare of the flashing lights on top of the police cars, surrounded by the shouts and commotion of all the officers outside. He closed his eyes against it all, not wanting his programming to glitch and try to analyze it like before. He was ashamed.

It only took Hank several minutes inside the house to examine what he wanted because he walked out sooner than Pongo expected. He seemed in a rush too. He grabbed Pongo's arm and dragged him up, pulling him insistently towards the car they had arrived in.

“What's wrong?” Pongo asked, sensing that something was off but unable to pinpoint anything in particular.

“Nothing,” Hank said, opening the passenger door and pushing Pongo in. “We just have to go.” He slammed the door shut and then hurried around to his side.

Hank was stiff and moved like he was trying to hide something. By the time he reached his own side and was climbing in, Pongo had finally noticed the small plastic bag cupped in Hank's hand. Hank had barely sat down and was just pulling on his seatbelt when another officer burst out of the house, stomping towards the car with a furious look on his face.

“Anderson!” he yelled.

“Shit,” Hank muttered. “Do you have any saliva?”

“What?” Pongo said, caught completely off guard by the question.

“I mean,” Hank said, tapping his own mouth as he glared at Pongo. “Do you have any saliva?”

“I—I have a lubrication that acts similar to human saliva, but it doesn't contain any sort of DNA or identification,” Pongo finally managed to stutter out. “I don't understand—”

“Eat this,” Hank ordered, shoving the plastic bag into Pongo's hands. He glance up at the officer that was still stomping towards them. “Now!”

Pongo ate it without thinking, popping the bag into his mouth and swallowing. The bag was much easier to get down than the utensils and bread Cole had been having him swallow back at the medical facility, and the bag joined the spoon that was already inside his stomach. Just in time too, as the angry officer reached the car and began pounding on Hank's window, motioning for it to be rolled down.

“I know you took damn evidence,” he snapped as soon as Hank had the window cracked open. “You know you aren't allowed to play the damn hero and take off on your own.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, officer,” Hank said, getting the window completely down and then leaning on it as if he were having a casual conversation. “I took the notes Fowler wanted me. I’m heading back to the station to write up a report.”

The man only glared, gripping the edge of the window as he shifted his anger from Hank over to Pongo. He sneered as his gaze settled on the android. “What the fuck are you looking at, stiff?” he snapped. “Plastics like you don’t belong here.” He scoffed and then pushed away from the vehicle, walking away from the car before Hank—or Pongo—could say anything.

“What an ass,” Hank muttered, jabbing the key into the ignition and twisting it violently. “We’re going to the station.”

“Why?” Pongo asked, quickly tugging on his seatbelt at they pulled away from the curb and back into the street.

Hank scoffed and rolled up his window as they picked up speed. “What do you think I had you swallow?” he said. “There are tools at the station that I can use to analyze it. No matter what Simpsons says, this is _my_ case, and I’m not about to let anyone else get hurt doing it.”

Pongo only knew a little about Hank’s work. Obviously a police officer. Pongo had a dozen articles saved to his database that had Hank's name highlighted front and center of the title, he had a couple mp3 files of recorded interviews, and more than enough pictures snapped by the media.

But Pongo didn't know Hank's job first hand.

He was about to see.

Pongo actually smiled as Hank pulled out of the neighborhood and into heavier traffic, picking up speed until they were racing along. Going and seeing Hank's workplace meant that they were growing closer to each other, that Hank was learning to trust Pongo a bit more.

And Pongo was going to use that to his full advantage.

They reached the station quickly, and, since it was later in the day, not many other people were milling around the office space. Hank led the way back through some hallways and finally swiped a keycard at a lock to open a heavy metal door, pushing them open and stepping into the laboratory space. Hank carefully shut the doors behind them, making sure they were locked and then holding up his hand to Pongo.

“Alright,” he said with a grimace. “Open up. Or whatever. I need the evidence back.”

“Oh,” Pongo said and nodded. “Of course.” He lifted up his shirt, dissolving his synthetic skin layer and then opening his stomach compartment.

The small bag of red crystals was sitting safe and sound next to the spoon from dinner, and Pongo quickly reached in and grabbed it. He left the spoon where it was, since it wouldn’t hurt him to carry it a little longer. He closed up his stomach and tugged his shirt back down, offering the bag to Hank.

“Is it Red Ice?” he asked, as Hank moved over to a workbench.

“What else would it be?” Hank said.

He set the bag aside and pulled on a pair of blue plastic gloves, making sure they fit right before cracking open the bag of crystals. He tapped a few out onto a small glass plate and then set the rest aside on an empty space, probably to be used later.

Pongo hovered eagerly behind him, looking over the equipment and watching him work. None of this was in his database and while he could easily look up all the names and videos on how they worked, seeing it firsthand, craning to look over Hank’s shoulder as he worked, was so much better.

Hank moved quickly, crushing the sample into dust and then tapping it into a small glass tube. He held it up to the light and then nodded to himself. He plugged in a machine, some heavy cube of plastic with an open top and a magnified viewing window and knobs that controlled temperature.

Hank adjusted the knobs and finally inserted the small glass tube, hunching over the machine so he could look through the viewing window. He turned the temperature knobs like he was a thief cracking a safe. It took several long moments until he rocked back on his heels and slipped the vial out of its slot in the machine. He set it on the counter and sighed.

“What is it?” Pongo asked, not entirely sure what had just been done.

“It’s Red Ice alright,” Hank said, returning to the spot where he had left the baggie with the rest of the drug. He tapped out a little more onto a new weight glass, carrying it over to another machine. “But not just any Red Ice.”

Pongo watched as Hank dissolved the sample into a flask of water, setting it on a heating pad with a magnetic stirrer.

“Each dealer has their own unique signature of drug,” Hank explained, preparing a tub of ice water as he waited. “An MO if you will. Not every batch of Red Ice is the same as the next, and you can usually tell which dealer it came from with a few simple tests.” He gestured to the machine from before. “Testing the melting point.” He gestured to the flask of water that was currently heating. “Testing its purity.”

“Do you know which dealer this came from?” Pongo asked.

Hank nodded, his brow furrowed. “It’s a guy we’ve been chasing after for a while,” he said. “If the tests are right, that is. He makes a unique blend of Red Ice that screws people over more than usual. Different bonds and shit. Hell if I know.”

The sample was completely dissolved in the water then, and Hank turned back to the workspace. He took the sample off the heater and held it up to the light, squinting as he studied it. He blew on it a couple times and then dunked it straight into the ice bath.

“If this Red Ice is the kind I’m thinking it is,” Hank went on, swirling the flask through the water. “Then we didn’t arrest the man we thought we did two weeks ago.”

Pongo quickly sifted through his database, finding the newspaper article on the arrest that Hank was talking about. A man by the name of Casey Stevens, a gang member easily identified via the snake tattoos curling around his face. The article talked in length about the heroic actions of Hank Anderson and the rest of the police squad that was under his command.

Casey Stevens, apparently, had been a huge component in the Red Ice marketplace, supplying it to several different districts in the city. According to the article, now that he was behind bars, the sale of Red Ice was sure to plummet. But when Pongo pulled up the statistics, nothing had significantly changed within the Red Ice Market.

“I don’t understand,” he said, blinking the articles away and returning to the lab.

Hank had removed the flask from the ice bath, and now the water inside was spider webbed with red crystals. He was tapping the flask against the countertop in an attempt to dislodge the said crystals without much success. Hank wrinkled his nose and have the flask a stern look.

“We didn't arrest the right guy,” he said, setting the flask aside with a sigh. “No matter what anyone says, I swear we didn't get him.”

“Casey Stevens?” Pongo said.

Hank shook his head. “That's not him,” he said. “That's sometime else, I swear.”

He scooped up the flask of reformed crystals and held it up to the light. He studied it for a long moment. So did Pongo. The crystals were finer than the originals, purified and in a higher quality than the old stuff.

“Because this is his brand of Red Ice,” he said. “I would recognize it anywhere.”

Pongo leaned forward, watching as Hank dumped the flask in a sink and then collected the rest of the Red Ice, scraping it back until its bag and then stuffing it until his pocket. He washed out the flask holding the rest of the crystals and then turned to the door.

“What are we going to do?” Pongo asked, moving to follow him.

Hank stuffed his hands in his pockets as he ambled casually down the hallway towards the front door. “We're going to catch the real Casey Stevens,” he said.

Pongo smiled, happy that Hank had said “we.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhh thirium physics are a little wonky, sorry

“Hank, I'm not sure if this is safe,” Pongo said, sinking lower in the passenger seat as a child on the sidewalk gave him a glare as they drove past.

“Of course it's not safe,” Hank said. He was manually driving, apparently not trusting the AI to handle it on these kind of streets. “But you didn’t want to stay home, so you have to sit in the passenger seat and keep your mouth shut.”

Well, of course Pongo didn’t want to stay home. Hank had tried sneaking out but the moment he walked to the garage, alarms went off in Pongo’s programming and the sharp ping of electricity told him he needed to get back within range of his owner. He _had_ to follow Hank unless he wanted his circuits fried. Pongo wasn’t sure if Hank knew that.

“I don’t think _you_ should be here then,” Pongo tried. If the area was for sure unsafe, then Pongo certainly didn’t want Hank to be here in case he got hurt.

“This is my job,” Hank said, craning his neck as they eased around a corner. “I’m a police officer. I’m supposed to put myself in danger.”

Pongo wanted to argue with that sort of logic but didn’t get the chance to as Hank pulled to a stop outside a towering apartment building. The place was even more run down than the condemned house from before, except this place wasn’t condemned.

Several people milled about in the grass outside the building, no androids that Pongo could see. Maybe that’s what was making him nervous. Hank shifted the car into park with a jolt and grabbed the key out of the ignition, tucking it safely into his pocket.

“I’m going in,” he said and then opened the door, stepping out of the car and into danger.

And all Pongo could think about was the danger.

“Wait!” he called, quickly unbuckling himself and jumping out of the car after him.

Perhaps it was the fact that the sun was setting. Or maybe it was the sharp sting of the correction shock at the base of Pongo’s neck. Or maybe it was the humans loitering around the front of the building. Whatever it was, it set Pongo’s programming on edge, and he knew he couldn’t leave Hank alone, not when he was walking into the building all by himself with his shoulders hunched against the stares.

Pongo hurried after him and was able to slip through the doors behind him just in time, entered the muggy inside of the building.

It smelled strongly of cigarette smoke, acrid enough to make Pongo’s eyes water in an effort to keep the optic units working. He wrinkled his nose too as his programming balanced all his senses to this new environment. Hank didn’t seem bothered at all and he didn’t snap at Pongo for following him, so that was good.

Something felt off about the entire place, something that Pongo’s programming couldn’t quite identify yet. It was working at it, picking apart his surroundings and cataloguing everything he could see. But there was something that he couldn’t see, something just outside his detection ability that was making his programming crawl and struggle to identify. Pongo did his best to shrug it off and follow Hank obediently.

Hank walked confidently across the lobby, straight up to a help desk that was situated behind a sheet of smudged glass. The girl working behind it looked like she’d rather be anywhere in the entire world but there. When Hank walked up and tapped the glass to get her attention, she looked up from the magazine she was reading to shoot him a glare.

“What do you want?” she asked, not even bothering to take her feet down off the desk.

“I’m looking for Casey Stevens,” Hank said, not letting his stern, authority demeanor waver even for a moment. “I believe he lives in this building.”

The girl flipped to the next page in her magazine and rolled her eyes. “Casey was arrested last week, jackass,” she said. “Plus, his rent was, like, three months late. All his stuff got thrown out earlier this week.”

“I know for a fact that he wasn’t arrested,” Hank said, too stubborn to give up on this particular lead. “I’d like his room number, or I’ll be forced to call authorities.”

That got the girl’s attention. She snapped her magazine down to give Hank a good once-over. “Look, _jackass_ ,” she said. “I don’t know who you think you are, but Casey doesn’t live here anymore. He’s behind bars.” She then rolled her eyes over to Pongo and sneered. “Plus, the building has a strict, no-plastics policy. We can’t have him on the premises.”

Hank reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, slapping it down on the counter so that his badge was blatantly visible. He leaned forward and ramped up the ‘I’m in charge listen to me’ stare.

“Tell me which room Casey Stevens is in,” he said.

The girl didn’t waver. She rolled her eyes and went back to her magazine. “Come back with a permit and without your disgusting android,” she said. “Then we’ll let you into the building. _Maybe_.”

Pongo’s programming was buzzing now, right behind his eyes, chugging away as it continued to struggle with his surroundings. It still hadn’t identified the unseen element of the room, whatever it was, and that was bothering Pongo. He fidgeted, tapping his finger against his thigh as he looked around the room.

He couldn’t see anything out of place. It was the basic sort of apartment lobby. A couple couches were arranged around a fireplace. Rugs were strewn here and there, covering up different parts of the hardwood floor. But something. Was. Off.

“Hank,” Pongo said, shuffling a little bit closer to him. “I don’t feel so good.”

Hank shrugged off his touch and kept his attention on the girl. “Then go back to the car,” he muttered. “I’m busy right now.”

Pongo grabbed his sleeve without thinking, giving it a firm tug. Something was definitely off about the room. Pongo just couldn’t find the words to describe it. He wanted to warn Hank but just couldn’t figure out how exactly.

His programming was buzzing even more now, flipping through facets and filters and anything that could be used to analyze the things about him.

“Pongo, I said _not now_ ,” Hank said, shoving off his touch.

And suddenly Pongo’s programming found a filter that worked. The room went dark, overshadowed and colored in deep blues and greys. The only thing that stood out was the thrumming blue inside his veins and Pongo realized that he was seeing _thirium,_ his programming somehow able to pick up on the past traces of the component that that was inside all androids. He looked up, ready to tell Hank about this new discovery in his program and that’s when he finally saw the rest of the room.

The floors were _bathed_ in blue, slightly glowing. It was splattered across the carpets. Handprints streaked the couches and the walls, as if the victims had been dragged kicking and struggling to wherever else in the building. Even the front desk, the thing that they were standing so close to, was splattered, almost the entire top covered in that horrifying glowing blue.

At least Pongo’s programming had settled down, satisfied that it had finally found the thing that was setting off all of Pongo’s warning alarms.

For some reason his knees went weak, and he grabbed at Hank without thinking. This time though, Hank didn’t pull away. Instead, he grabbed Pongo’s arm before he could go down and kept him on his feet, wrapping his arm around his waist to make sure he was steady. When he spoke, his voice sounded too far away to be real.

“Pongo, what’s wrong?” he said.

Was Pongo supposed to answer him? Was that a thing that humans normally did? He couldn’t remember.

“I need to sit him down,” Hank was saying now, dragging Pongo in some random direction while the girl protested even further in the background. “Something’s wrong with him.”

Pongo didn’t want anything to be wrong with him. He wanted to be fine and okay and not such a mess. This was twice now that he had interrupted Hank while he was working. Pongo was doing the opposite of help and Hank was going to eventually get angry at him for it.

“Hey! You can’t go in there!” the girl said, still sounding a million miles away.

“Can’t you see something’s wrong!” Hank snapped back, sounding just as far.

A door was kicked open. Pongo staggered another couple steps with Hank’s help and then was set down on the cushioned surface of a couch or chair of some sort. When Pongo’s vision finally cleared enough to focus on Hank leaning over him, concern written all over his face, he breathed a sigh of short-lived relief.

“Thirium,” he mumbled. “That room was covered—”

“Don’t talk,” Hank said, his voice thankfully where he was and not floating somewhere else. “ _She’s_ listening.”

“I told you no androids allowed,” the girl from the front desk snapped, hovering just behind Hank as he fussed over Pongo. “And this is exactly why.”

“Can you just give him room to breathe?” Hank growled, sending the girl a dirty look. “Give us ten minutes and then we’ll leave. Promise.”

The girl narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. She looked almost reluctant to let Hank win but then she rolled her eyes and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Fine,” she said. “Ten minutes. But then I’m kicking you out no matter what.” She then stomped away, slamming some sort of door behind her as she left.

“What happened?” Hank immediately demanded, not waiting to see if they were truly alone.

“Thirium,” Pongo said, now able to sit up on his own without Hank’s support. His vision had returned to normal too, and the room they were in was thankfully devoid of any glowing blue splotches. At least, any splotches he could see. “There was thirium all over the lobby. It looked like an android _bloodbath_.”

Hank frowned, studying him as if he suspected he was lying. “You’re sure?” he said.

Pongo nodded. “My vision changed for a moment and I could see it,” he said. “It was horrible. Everywhere. It was everywhere too. I just . . . It was scary.” The word fell woefully short of what Pongo had experienced.

“Thirium is a main ingredient in Red Ice,” Hank said, dusting off Pongo's shoulders and chest. “I didn't expect their headquarters to also be their main location of production but criminals aren't exactly geniuses.”

Pongo swallowed dryly but let himself be fussed over. He didn't know what Hank was going to do, but he seemed beyond reckless and he often leaned toward bad decisions. Pongo was a little nervous to know what Hank would decide was a good course of action.

Hank began unloading his pockets then, shoving his wallet and watch into Pongo’s hands. He kept his badge for himself, but then, to Pongo’s surprise, he pulled a handgun out of the waistband of his pants and passed that over as well.

An alarm went off in Pongo’s head, informing him that androids were not allowed to carrying firearms, but when he tried to hand it back, Hank froze him with a glare.

“You need to carry all of this,” he said. “In your stomach or whatever. These people can’t know I have it.”

“But I’m not supposed to,” Pongo said, trying to explain just a couple months earlier a law had passed that prohibited androids from carrying any sort of firearms.

Hank didn’t let him protest. “This is a fucking order,” he snapped. “Just hide it until I need it again, alright?”

Pongo didn’t really have a chance to protest that. He silently accepted the gun, wallet, and watch and lifted his shirt. He opened his stomach compartment and set everything inside, already feeling the weight of it on his system. It wasn’t much, but at the same time, it was definitely noticeable for him. Thankfully, it didn’t show on the outside, his shirt falling flat when he pulled it back down.

“Good,” Hank said. “Now, just follow my lead, and we’ll get out of here without any of your blue blood on the floor. Okay?”

Pongo swallowed, because he certainly didn’t want to lose any of his biocomponents and certainly not here at the hands of humans that probably harvested androids for a living. He couldn’t abandon Hank to become drugs. He was supposed to take care of Hank, not let himself be taken away so easily. He was just finishing composing himself when the girl from the front counter came barging into the room.

Her lips curled when she saw that he was upright again, and she propped her hands on her hips. “Good, it’s up,” she said. “You can leave.”

Hank pushed himself up from his crouch and dusted his hands off on the front of his jacket. “We were just going to,” he said and then offered a hand to Pongo.

Pongo didn’t really need the help standing up but he appreciated the gesture. He pulled himself up with Hank’s help and copied him, dusting his hands off on his own jacket. He gave the girl a friendly smile, hoping she wouldn’t hate him so much.

She just continued to glare.

“Just get out,” she snapped, jabbing her finger at the door. “Before I call people who will _kick_ you out.”

“Come on, Pongo,” Hank said, putting his shoulders back and sauntering past the girl. “Let’s go.”

Pongo obediently followed after him, keeping his gaze down since any sort of friendliness towards the girl had been rejected so far. He stared down at Hank’s heels and followed them more than anything else.

The lobby looked innocent when he couldn’t see the splotches of thirium. Still, Pongo was careful where he put his feet, almost tiptoeing along after Hank so that he touched the ground as little as possible. The doors jingled as they left, ringing the bell above the door that normally chimed when a resident entered. Not when they left.

The air was crisp outside, cooling down as the sun set. Pongo could easily shut off his temperature settings and Hank was warm enough with his jacket, so it wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t a big deal until they were stopped in the middle of the parking lot by two heavily tattooed thugs.

“Where do you think you’re going, old man?” the one on the left said. Twin snakes curled up his cheeks and arched over his temples, the mouths open around his eyes.

“Yeah, we wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood,” the one on the right said. He only had one snake on his face, sitting low on his jaw and slipping down to twist around his neck.

“I was just leaving the area,” Hank said, putting his hands up in a sign of goodwill. Showing he was unarmed.

Pongo thought about the handgun resting in his stomach.

“There’s no need to get physical, gentlemen.”

“Oh, but we always get physical with pigs,” Two Snakes said, cracking his knuckles as he took a menacing step forward. “We _love_ getting physical with pigs.”

One Snake cackled like a stupid goon, taking a step forward too.

Hank kept his hands up. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Please. I don’t want any trouble.”

Pongo saw the shift in Two Snakes’ stance and saw the movement before it even happened. And his programming drove him forward before he could even think for himself. He was between Hank and the two thugs in a heartbeat. And Two Snakes’ punch landed squarely on his jaw instead of Hank’s.

It wasn't the power behind the blow that sent Pongo sprawling rather than the pain. He didn’t feel anything, not really, but the blow sent static racing through his programming, fizzing out his sight and making his muscles lock up and twitch.

“Damn stiff,” one of the thugs growled. “Always getting in the way.”

More blows rained down on Pongo now, nailing him in his stomach and back. The thugs kicked at him, apparently distracted enough from Hank in their desire to beat him up. Pongo took the blows, shutting down his pain centers even further, shutting himself off from the world until he couldn’t feel anything at all.

“Hey! Stop it!” Hank yelled. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

A kick nailed Pongo right on the side of the head, making his programming reverberate with feedback and then perform a forced shut down. Pongo didn’t even have a chance to regret his decision before everything went black.


	7. Chapter 7

Pongo hissed as the ice pack hit his cheek. His system was still booting up and recalibrating which meant he didn’t have full control over himself quite yet. Which meant he couldn’t just turn off his temperature sensors. Meaning that he felt everything as Hank applied ice to his bruises.

Well, bruises was the wrong word. Humans got bruised. Pongo wasn’t human. Ice wouldn’t help him at all, but he could also sense that Hank needed this sort of job to focus him. So Pongo kept his mouth just and let Hank work.

He felt smaller than he normally was, sitting on a counter top, shirt off to show the pale expanse of his skin, marred by splotches of leaking blue. Hank was still fully dressed, which made Pongo feel more like a child than his android.

Along with his temperature sensors, Pongo’s nerve endings were also in full working order. Meaning he felt every twinge and pang of the dents in his frame left from his beating. At least his memory card didn’t seem to have been damaged. That would be his main area of concern.

“I didn’t think androids could bruise,” Hank said, dabbing the ice pack across Pongo’s face and then moving down to his chest.

“They aren’t bruises,” Pongo explained and then gasped when Hank pressed against the spot where not only had the thirium leaked through, but the bicomponent underneath had been ruptured. 

Hank just gave him an unbelieving look and pressed the ice pack more firmly against the wounded spot. “Just shut up,” he said. “I can’t believe you did that. You could have seriously gotten hurt.”

“My biocomponents can repair themselves,” Pongo said, taking over the job of holding the ice pack against his ribs as Hank began digging through a first aid kit, pulling out thick white bandages. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Hank repeated, ripping open the largest bandage with his teeth and then sticking it straight to Pongo’s stomach. “You could’ve died. Or whatever androids do instead of die. Whatever. The point is, I had everything under control.”

And that’s when Pongo noticed the very human, very obvious bruises darkening Hank’s own face. His knuckles were bruised too, bloody, because he had actually fought back. Not like Pongo. His jacket was hanging over a chair opposite of the table Pongo was sitting on, but Hank’s shirt was ripped at the collar, as if someone had grabbed and pulled violently.

“You’re hurt!” Pongo said. His program buzzed, trying to function at full capacity but with parts of his biocomponents down, he couldn’t quite manage it. He got a shock of pain on the back of his neck for his troubles.

“I’m fine,” Hank said. He was rummaging around in the kit again, pulling out more bandages and band aids. “I had antibiotics that I can use. Most medicine is labeled for strictly human-use only, and I don’t want you to bleed out.”

Pongo could already feel his components stitching themselves back together. Plus, his body would naturally recycle as much thirium as it could by itself. At most, he would need a transfusion but his body would recover from the dents and rips it had collected on its own.

“I won’t bleed out,” he said, trying to comfort Hank so that he wasn’t so worried. His body language was tight and nervous, high strung. It was obvious that he was bothered by what had happened, and Pongo wanted to make things better. “I’ll be fine,” he reassured with a smile.

He winced as Hank applied another bandage, this time to his shoulder.

“Don’t give me that shit,” Hank said.

Pongo closed his mouth and let him work then, and Hank seemed grateful for that. He applied more bandages, wrapping up the cracks in Pongo’s skin. The spots of blue slowly faded, and Pongo’s system continued to boot up. Eventually, all his faculties were back online and Pongo was able to turn down the amount of pain he felt. He could also adjust his body temperature and turned that up, heating himself in the cool air of the office.

Once Hank was satisfied that Pongo wasn’t going to shut down and collapse, he wrapped his own knuckles in white bandages, applying medicine to the worst parts and to his face. Once he had taken care of himself, he took a moment to lean back against the counter with a sigh, looking far more exhausted than should have been logical.

“Are _you_ okay?” Pongo asked, figuring that was a good place to start out of everything.

“I’ll be fine,” Hank said, cleaning up after themselves and putting the first aid kit back where it belonged. He then turned to the coffee maker that was tucked into the corner of the counter area and started a pot. 

Pongo rested his hand on his stomach, realizing that his compartment was still holding everything that Hank had given him back at the apartment complex. Quickly, he opened himself up, taking out the items and putting them on the counter next to him. They were safe and undamaged, but Pongo still handled them with care, especially the gun. He set that down as quickly as possible.

He hesitated with the spoon, turning it over in his hands to make sure it was undamaged. The surface was scratched a bit, probably from being jostled around inside him for so long, but it wasn’t beyond repair. Pongo set it down then and turned his attention back to Hank.

He was pouring himself a cup of coffee by then, not waiting for the machine to finish the entire pot. He drank it black too, forgoing any sort of cream or sugar.

“So why did you do that?” he finally said, settling back on his chair with his cup cradled in his hands.

“Do what?” Pongo said, wondering briefly if he wasn’t supposed to take all the items out of his stomach. He was about to start putting them back when Hank spoke again.

“Jump in the way,” he said. “You should have known better than to get involved. I had everything under control.”

“They were going to attack,” Pongo said. “I don’t think you had it under control. I was trying to help.”

“You could’ve gotten really hurt,” Hank said, narrowing his eyes at Pongo.

“So could you,” Pongo said.

He couldn’t really see why they were really arguing about this. The situation had been complicated and they had both done what they thought needed to be done. Neither were strictly right or wrong, so arguing over it was essentially useless. That didn’t stop Hank from glaring a bit harder at Pongo.

“Yeah, but you could’ve gotten broken,” he said and took another drink of coffee.

Again, it was a pointless argument. They both had been in danger. They had both gotten hurt because of the situation. The situation was now in the past. Arguing was pretty much useless at this point, but that didn’t seem to stop Hank.

“I don’t want you to get broken, okay?” he said. “Look, it’s complicated. Just . . . don’t do anything like that again.”

Pongo didn’t argue. “If it makes you feel any better,” he said. “I have a memory chip implanted in the back of my skull. If anything should happen to my external body, the chip can be recovered and inserted into a new body. My personality and memories will be preserved.”

Hank just gave him a strange look but didn’t comment. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet and walked away.

They had been in a small office, like some sort of first aid center to fix up minor wounds. It was attached to the main office area via a short hallway, and Pongo had to jump down and hurry after Hank as he walked back towards his desk. He grabbed his shirt at the last moment, pulling it on over his head. He didn’t know what had happened to his jacket.

The office area was bustling with activity. Officers like Hank filling out paperwork from past assignments, officers escorting criminals to holding cells, and officers carrying bags and boxes of evidence to other rooms for the station were hurrying back and forth. There weren’t any other androids that Pongo could sense, but the Wi-Fi network was open so he connected to that instead.

Most of the police files were encrypted, even on the network, but that didn’t bother Pongo. He didn’t want to read any files. It just felt nice to charge his batteries after everything that happened. In fact, Pongo wouldn’t even mind a temporary shutdown to recover completely. He didn’t have time for that though. He dutifully followed Hank across the work area and back to his own desk.

Hank was already sitting behind his computer, sipping away at his coffee as he browsed through the files he had open. So Pongo took the seat next to him at an empty desk that didn’t look like it was occupied with anyone else.

“Hey, Anderson!”

Pongo looked up at the shout, expecting to see another officer of some sort. Instead, it was a man dressed up in a formal looking uniform, even more formal than any other uniform that was being worn in the office area. He also looked a lot older than everyone else.

“I heard you tried to follow a lead on the Red Ice case,” the man said, sauntering up to Hank’s desk with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “How did that go?”

“You know perfectly well how it went,” Hank grumbled, not taking his eyes off his computer screen. He took a long drink of coffee and set his mug down definitely harder than necessary. “You’ve probably already got a report.”

“I did get a report,” the man said, rocking casually back on his heels. “But I want to hear from _you_.”

That drew Hank's attention, and he sat back in his seat, glaring up at the man. He snatched up his mug and took a long drink, not breaking eye contact.

“You wanna know?” he said, finally swallowing his mouthful.

The man only smiled, not rising to Hank's bait. “Yes.”

“I had a lead,” Hank said, tapping a finger sharply against the wooden top of his desk. “A _strong_ lead. I thought I was finally getting somewhere.”

The man slid one hand out of his pocket to grab a pen from a cup on Hank's desk. He spun it idly through his fingers. “It didn't?”

“It _did_ ,” Hank insisted. “There’s something in that apartment building, I know it.” He glanced over at Pongo and then took another drink of coffee. “He saw something.”

“He?” the man said. “The android?”

Hank rolled his eyes and finished off the last of his coffee. He seemed still tense though. Pongo figured he could do something about that so he pushed himself to his feet and held his hand out for Hank’s mug.

“I could refill that for you,” he offered.

Hank sighed and let him take it. Pongo was just glad he could do something to help instead of just sitting though. He figured he could just get coffee from the medical room he had woken up in, since Hank seemed happy with that. There was no reason to search for anything else. Pongo didn’t even have to pay attention to the conversation going on behind him either. 

Pongo found the room easily enough, pulling the still-full pot of coffee off its heating pad and filling Hank's mug to the brim. It was steaming hot, but Pongo could easily turn down the temperature sensors in his hand so he could carry the mug safely. He also knew that Hank didn't want sugar or cream, so there wasn't much else he had to do. Satisfied that the cup was a full as it could be, Pongo headed back to the office area. 

He was just in time to catch the last part of Hank's conversation with the older man.

“He _knew_ what he was doing,” Hank was saying. “I think. . .”

“You _think_?” the old man said. “You know how I feel about androids on the open field, Anderson. Even machines can be unpredictable especially in stressful situations like that.”

“He's not gonna develop goddamn PTSD,” Hank said. “What I am saying, is that he was somehow able to see the blood stains. There was too much thirium there for an 'android-free’ housing development. Pongo wasn’t even made for investigative purposes and he was still able to do that.”

The man frowned. “I don’t like what you’re suggesting, Anderson.”

“Here you go,” Pongo said, finally arriving to the desk and setting Hank’s mug down within his reach. “I kept it black for you.”

“Thank you,” Hank mumbled, picking it up and taking a drink.

Pongo took his seat again, but the conversation didn’t continue. In fact, Hank and the man were now just staring each other, having some sort mental conversation that Pongo couldn’t pick up on. It took several moments of just tense silence before the old man sighed and rocked back on his heels.

“Fine,” he said. “But if things get out of hand, you know exactly what will happen, Anderson.”

“You remind me every day, chief,” Hank said with an obviously fake smile.

The man huffed and walked away, and Hank seemed to relax as soon as he was gone. He took another drink of coffee and he looked back at his computer. He didn’t start working though, just stared blankly at the screen. Pongo didn’t want to bother him so he let him think. It took two minutes of silence before Hank snapped out of his trance.

“You’re sure you saw thirium, right?” he said, glancing up at Pongo. “Like, _sure_ you saw?”

“Of course,” Pongo said. “My memory chip contains everything I’ve seen. It cannot be tampered with. In fact, in 2024, courts ruled that any images recovered from an android memory chip was plausible enough evidence to present in any sort of case.”

Hank waved a hand at him. “I didn’t need a history lesson,” he said. “Could you pull up those pictures?”

“Of course!” Pongo said with a smile. “If you provide me with a computer to plug into, I could also project them onto a screen so that you could see them too.”

Hank gestured to his computer. “I have a screen already,” he said.

“Oh, thank you,” Pongo said.

He stood up and walked over to Hank’s desk. He dissolved the skin on his hand and connected to the computer serving. That was easy enough. Pongo respectively stayed away from any of Hank’s personal files, instead locating the photo gallery where he could load up his memory card. Once that was open, Pongo settled down and opened up his memory chip.

Almost instantly, his mind was filled with shrieking feedback as his programming bucked what he was trying to do. The high-pitched whine slowly gave way to a faded out hum, a buzzing that travelling from behind his eyes, down his arms, and to the tips of his fingers. His mind fizzed and popped, and Pongo glimpsed the message of “Application Not Responding” on the backs of his eyelids before he went into a manual shutdown for the second time that day.


	8. Chapter 8

“The memory chip was damaged.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying it was damaged. Not a lot. Just a scratch, really. If you wanted, we could terminate the body and transfer everything to a new card. You could choose a better model then. This one was getting old.”

“You want to kill him and put him in a different body just because he’s going _out of style_? I’ve only had him a couple days!”

“It’s a common practice really. Nothing drastic. People want the hottest, the latest, the _best_. I understand it. It’s no big deal.”

“I don’t want a _new model,_ okay?! I want you to _fix_ him.”

“No need to get defensive. I’m just giving you your options.”

“Just fix him, goddamnit. Just do that. You don’t have to put him in a new body, or . . . or whatever. I don’t need any perks or props. Just make sure he doesn’t collapse the next time I ask him to do something. Okay?”

“Hm, yes, well, the thing is, I can’t.”

“You _can’t_?”

“Android memory chips are a touchy subject. I can’t just open it up and buff out the scratches. The memory chip holds everything that makes the android the android. If you want it fixed, I need to take apart the whole thing. Your options are to leave it the way it is since it wasn’t causing too much trouble, or you could trash it and replace the entire thing. You said your workplace will compensate you?”

“That’s not the point. There’s barely anything wrong with him. There’s no need to completely replace him!”

“Well, those are your options. I don’t know what else to tell you, bud.”

“Well, I don’t want to have him _destroyed_ , okay. That’s like the opposite of what I want to do. You’re sure there’s nothing you can do without killing him?”

“I wouldn’t be killing it anyway, but to answer your question, no. I’m sure. I’ve seen mild cases like this before though. Usually the android continues to operate just fine. You said it malfunctioned when you asked it to access its memory chip? Just don’t do that, and I’m sure you’ll be fine. If you don’t want to junk it, I mean.”

“Fine. You know what? Fine. I’ll keep him the way he is. If the only other option is killing him, I want him kept alive.”

“Excellent choice. And of course, if you find out that anything else is wrong, you can always come back and have junked. There are some wonderful new models that were just released. If you just want to have a look? Just in case, I mean.”

“I said I’ll be fine.”

“Alright then, sir, I’ll restart the android now. It will take about ten minutes, but then you should be good to go.”

“Great. I want to take him home.”

Pongo couldn’t see anything. His vision was dark. He couldn’t sense or feel anything either. He had no Wi-Fi network to connect with. He could vaguely feel the cords that were plugged into his face and arms. Was he naked? Was his skin off? He wasn’t quite sure. There wasn’t much to sense. He listened to the entire conversation, catalogued it carefully in his mind, and then returned to idling mode.

*~*

Pongo powered up completely an undetermined amount of time later, and he was finally able to figure out where he was. Well, he couldn't figure out where he was but at least now he could _see_ where he was.

The room was bleach silver, sterile and cold. He wasn't naked, but a majority of his uniform had been removed and was folded on a counter on the opposite side of the room. Also, his skin was deactivated. When Pongo tried putting it back on, he found that he was overridden by a user code. With no other choice but to remain uncovered, Pongo sat up on the table and waited for someone to tell him what to do.

He didn’t have to wait long either. Three minutes later, the door swung open and man in a silver uniform walked in. He was followed close behind by Hank.

“I just need to recalibrate him,” the man said, walking straight up to Pongo and grabbing one of his wrists. “You’ll be ready to leave in five minutes.”

Before either Hank or Pongo could say anything, the man was pulling out a thick black cord and was plugging it into Pongo’s wrist. He shoved it into place almost painfully. Pongo couldn’t help but wince, even though his pain receptors had obviously been turned down.

“I’ll be taking down the prohibitors and the blocking codes,” the man explained. “And remember, if you do experience any other sort of problems, it might be best to do what I suggested.”

Hank grunted but wouldn’t make eye contact with either the man or Pongo. He stood back near the door with his hands in his pockets, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but there.

A cold chill swept through Pongo, and he suddenly had full control of his faculties again. Quickly, he covered himself in his skin and returned all his receptors bad to his preferred settings. When the man handed him his uniform, he pulled it on just as quick, and once he was presentable, he looked to Hank for instruction.

“Have a wonderful day,” the man said cheerfully, giving them a smile and a wave as Hank walked out of the door.

Hank didn’t respond.

They walked in silence through the hallways until they exited the building. Pongo saw a couple other human workers but no other androids. He didn’t question it though. He just followed Hank obediently until they reached the outside, and he continued following him until they were in Hank’s car, pulling away from the building and finally somewhere private.

“I’m not broken, am I?” Pongo asked. He wouldn’t be able to help Hank if he were broken.

Hank was quick to shake his head. “No! No. Hell no. I just wanted . . . to make sure you were alright. After what happened. Sometimes androids need to be fixed after their treated . . . so carelessly.”

“Alright,” Pongo said. “But everything is okay, right?”

“Of course,” Hank said. “You’re fine.”

Pongo smiled at that answer, satisfied that he would be able to continue helping Hank. He sat back in his seat and folded his hands in his lap, content to watch the outside world go past. It had gotten dark while he had been out. Afternoon had slowly morphed into a hazy twilight, and a blazing orange sunset stretched across the skyline.

“You know,” Hank said, being the one to break the silence. “When people go through their first mission like that, they usually talk about things. It’s not healthy to keep everything bottled up.”

Pongo frowned, calculating through what Hank was talking about. After a quick search through the public files he did have access to—which weren’t many since he didn’t have an open network—Pongo quickly discovered PTSD and human trauma. With that new information, he was able to continue the conversation with Hank.

“You don’t have to worry,” he said. “There are no studies supporting an android’s ability to acquire the same trauma that a human can. In fact, if anything, I should be asking how you are doing.”

“I’m used to it,” Hank said with a halfhearted shrug. “This wasn’t my first time. But this was _your_ first time. I’m concerned about you.”

“I’m fine,” Pongo said again. Hank still didn’t seem reassured by that, so Pongo quickly added, “However, if I do feel anything wrong or out of place, I will let you know immediately.”

Hank’s shoulders slumped at that, but he nodded. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s . . . yeah, just tell me if anything happens.”

Pongo nodded. “And you will tell me if you feel wrong or out of place, right?”

Hank rolled his eyes.

The rest of the car ride was silent.

They didn’t go back to the station. Probably because it had gotten so late. They headed back to Hank’s house instead. Hank was yawning by the time the car pulled into the driveway and parked itself in the garage, so Pongo decided he would be as quiet as possible. In fact, even though he had spent the majority of the day shutdown, his system was begging for a chance to rest. It had definitely been a long day.

It was comforting, almost, to walk back into the familiar space. It was still clean from Pongo had picked up the first time and warm in contrast to the outside.

Hank immediately kicked off his shoes and shrugged off his jacket, leaving it in a pile on the kitchen table. He ran his hands through his hair with a huge sigh and glanced briefly at the refrigerator.

“I’m not hungry,” he said. “Didn’t plan on making dinner.”

“That’s alright,” Pongo said. “I will be fine with a night of charging. If you need to rest, go right ahead.” He didn’t press for Hank to eat. That wouldn’t be helpful right now. Pongo just made a mental note to make sure that they ate breakfast tomorrow though.

With a grunt, Hank staggered off towards the back of the house, a place that Pongo still wasn’t allowed to go. Pongo could hear him rummaged around his bedroom to get ready for bed, but then there was silence, meaning that Hank had officially gone to sleep. The house was quiet then, broken only by the hum of appliances.

Pongo took off his own jacket and then his shoes too. He folded them neatly and left them on the coffee table in the living room. The place didn’t need to be cleaned up any more than it already was, but there were dishes in the sink left over from breakfast. He rolled up his sleeves and poured soap over the mess.

He took his time, since there was no hurry and Hank was safely in bed. Pongo had the leisure of scrubbing each dish with care and dedication, making sure each was as clean as it could be before rinsing it and setting it aside to dry.

It also gave him the chance to think and go over the events of the day.

Well, less go over and more just take stock of his system. He went briefly on autopilot, running a diagnostics of himself and his faculties. He found a few small viruses that he had picked up while on an open network but nothing that was harmful and not easily taken care of. He cleaned himself up of those and continued on.

He double checked that everything worked. Pain receptors. Temperature sensors. He took his skin off and then put it back on. He flexed his different muscles and then rearranged his center of balance. He returned everything to normal when he was done, satisfied that everything was in more or less working order.

While he had been on autopilot, he had finished the dishes without realizing it, and they were now drying in their rack. Pongo wiped his hands off on a dish towel and then folded that neatly too. He wiped down the counter so that everything was clean. He then shut off the lights and made his way to the couch in the living room.

He laid down on the couch like he had done before, and closed his eyes. He shut himself down for a long night of charging.

But he wasn’t greeted by the usual darkness of his sleep mode. Well, it was black at first. It was familiar and comforting and the feeling of charging was the closest thing Pongo could equate to a human eating food after being hungry all day. But that feeling only lasted for a couple minutes. And then the strangest thing happened.

It started out with green glitches. Then black and white static. The short clips and images flashing for brief seconds. It was like dreaming, if androids were capable of dreaming. But androids _couldn’t_ dream. They weren’t supposed to. It was impossible because androids didn’t even really sleep. But here Pongo was, reliving the last couple hours of his life like he was a human dreaming.

The images of the lobby splattered with glowing blue thirium shifted into the two men who had attacked them. Images of their snake tattoos mingled with the blue blood, creating more of a nightmare. It was like a camera shot with too many layers and a picture open on each layer. Images overlaid with other images and none of it making sense.

Pongo tried shutting the application down. He tried shutting off his optic centers. He tried shutting off his touch centers. Nothing helped. He couldn’t manually shut himself down, because the problem didn’t seem _that_ bad to warrant a complete shutdown. Pongo didn’t want to force that on himself. Especially since he wouldn’t be able to reboot until someone else turned him back on.

Pongo didn’t want to become that helpless. It wasn’t _that_ bad. He kept telling himself that as the images doubled back on themselves and began repeating. It became a cycle then, blue blood to snakes to the men who attacked them to the apartment building swimming with glowing thirium. Pongo couldn’t escape it.

The next thing he knew, someone was shaking him, pumping his chest and forcibly bringing him back online and back into the world. Pongo actually gasped as his mind broke free of the images, and Hank’s worried face came into view.

“What’s going on?!” Hank demanded as soon as he realized that Pongo was awake. “You were thrashing in your sleep!”

“I . . . I wasn’t asleep,” Pongo managed to say. “Androids—”

“Don’t sleep,” Hank finished. “I got it. What was happening? You were thrashing.”

“Something was wrong,” Pongo said. “There were . . . images. Flashing images. Over and over, of the lobby and the men with the snake tattoos.”

Hank sighed and rocked back on his heels, still in a crouch. His hands dropped off of Pongo’s shoulders and he looked down at the floor. “Dammit,” he muttered. “Damn androids getting PTSD.”

“I don’t think I can,” Pongo said. Now that he was online, everything was better. No images, no memories. “It was just a glitch, I think.”

Hank pushed himself to his feet and walked to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and dug around inside. He didn’t respond to Pongo’s protests. After a moment of rummaging, he pulled out a bottle of beer and twisted it open, tipping back a long drink.

Pongo pushed himself to his feet and pulled on his jacket. He brushed out any wrinkles in his undershirt he had gotten from sleeping and then he put on his shoes as well. He wanted to show Hank that everything was fine. That he was fine. And looking as presentable and normal as possible was the best way to show that.

Hank was leaning back against the counter now, still nursing his beer. He looked exhausted himself, as if he hadn’t gotten a good night’s rest either.

Pongo stood across from him, put on a reassuring smile, and waited for instruction.

There was several long minutes of silence as Hank continued to drink. At one point, he looked up and studied Pongo long and hard, his face and emotions unreadable. He thunked down the empty bottle once he was completely finished and wiped his beard on the back of his hand.

“Come on,” he said, pushing himself off the counter and grabbing his jacket from last night as he headed towards the door. “I can’t believe I have to do this.”

“Do what?” Pongo asked, following him as he shoved on his shoes and headed out the garage.

“Help you cope,” Hank muttered, pulling open the driver’s door of his car. He jerked his chin at the other side. “Get in.”

Pongo didn’t argue, because Hank made it very clear already who would drive and who would not. He climbed into his designated seat and buckled himself without complaint. Hank climbed in next to him and turned the car on with a harsh twist of the key, buckling himself even as he backed out of the building.

“What do you mean cope?” Pongo asked. Of course, he had the definition in his mind, that was easy enough to look up. He just didn’t understand how that pertained to him. So he had had one bad night. So what? That didn’t really mean anything.

“We do this with all new police officers,” Hank said, focusing on the road as he merged with traffic, taking a route Pongo didn’t recognize. “Especially after their first time out on the field. Even more so if they saw something like you did.”

“But I’m not a police officer,” Pongo said.

Hank snorted. “Just shut up for once, okay? And let me do this.”

Pongo shut up and watched the road instead.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I mention the timeline isn't perfect? 
> 
> yeah, the timeline isn't perfect

Pongo was still confused when Hank pulled up to single-story, cottage-style building. It looked homely and welcoming, but like nothing Pongo had ever seen. It didn’t even have a network for Pongo to connect to.

“What is this place?” he asked Hank, because if Hank had come here on purpose, then Hank definitely knew what it was.

“Therapy,” Hank said, parking the car in an empty space and pulling out the key. “For you. Come on.”

Pongo didn’t have much of a choice but to follow Hank like he usually did. It seemed like he always ended up following Hank everywhere, and also straight through the glass doors of the building. The inside wasn’t exactly air conditioned, but cool enough to contrast the outside. A woman sat behind a desk directly opposite of the doors, and she beamed at them when they entered.

“Hello,” she said. “Do you have an appointment with us today?”

“No,” Hank said, walking up to the counter and leaning on it casually. “But do you have a free spot open? Preferably as soon as possible?”

“Actually,” the woman said, looking to her computer and typing for a moment. “Today is under-booked. We have a couple of rooms open right now. Do you have a preference?”

“What’s open?” Hank asked.

The woman smiled and turned the computer screen so that he could see it. She pointed to a couple different boxes on the screen, and Pongo stepped forward so that he could see what was going on. There was still no network for him to connect to so he still had no idea what this place was.

“That one,” Hank said, jabbing a finger at an option in the middle.

‘St. Bernard Puppies’ the option read. And Pongo was perhaps even more confused than before.

“Great!” the woman said, turning the screen back towards her and continuing typing. “Your room will be ready in a couple moments.”

“Room?” Pongo repeated. “Hank, what is this place?”

“Oh,” the woman said, pulling out a packet of papers and sliding over the top of the counter. “We do require a bit more paperwork for androids. Don’t worry though, the animals are all well socialized and have no problem with nervous occupants.”

“Great,” Hank said, grabbing the papers along with a pen. He turned and walked to a small seating area, sitting down in one of the plastic chairs. He opened the paper packet on one of his knees and then gestured for Pongo to join him.

Pongo did.

“I still don’t understand what this place is,” Pongo said, taking the seat next to Hank.

“I told you,” Hank said, flipping quickly through the pages and checking boxes and scribbling on blank lines. “Therapy.”

“The most common form of therapy is sitting in a room and talking with a certified professional about past events in your life, how those events are impacting you, and your feelings,” Pongo said, quickly grabbing the definition from the weak local network outside the building. “St. Bernard puppies cannot be certified professionals.”

“That’s what you think,” Hank said, finally getting to the last page and scrawling his quick signature. “But you’re wrong.” He pushed himself to his feet and returned the packet of pages to the woman behind the desk.

They chatted for a bit, not loud enough for Pongo to hear. He was just about to stand up and join them when Hank turned around and motioned for him.

“Come on,” he said. “The room’s ready.”

This was sounding more and more ominous, but Pongo stood up and obediently followed him past the front desk to a door that was labeled for clients only. The woman pushed it open and led them down a hallway until she reached a door with a glass front. A curtain was hung from the inside though, which meant that Pongo couldn’t see through.

“Here you are, sir,” the woman said, handing Hank a keycard. “Enjoy your two hours. Please remember that the rooms are monitored. Breaking any of the rules will get you immediately kicked out and potentially band from the facility.”

“Understood,” Hank said, giving her a cheerful smile and a fake salute.

The woman walked away, leaving Pongo alone with Hank and the keycard and still no idea what was going on. Nothing was helping him understand this, and then Hank was pushing the door open. He grabbed Pongo by the front of his jacket and dragged him into the well-lit room.

The space was decorated with soft cushions and beanbags. A couple food and water dishes were set out in one corner, right next to several pee pads. The floor was carpeted. Even the walls were carpeted. The space was soft and roomy and _relaxing_.

And there were puppies.

There were four St. Bernard puppies total, each at least forty pounds. And they were absolutely excited to see Hank and Pongo. As soon as Pongo stepped into the room, the puppies were on him before he could blink. It was as if they knew that the room had been purchased for him.

They yipped and jumped and nibbled at his fingers and clothes. Before Pongo could re-adjust his center of balance, the biggest one hit the back of his knees and he went down hard. The puppies were even happier at that, climbing all over him and licking at his face now.

Pongo couldn’t focus enough to get back up. He tried covering his face to prevent them from licking him, but they just tugged on his shirt sleeves and wormed their cold noses between his fingers until he had no choice but to let them in. Two were busy trying to kiss his face, one had decided that his shoes were good chew toys, and the last one had plopped itself across his stomach. Altogether they very effectively pinned him to the ground.

Hank was laughing at him.

“Welcome to therapy,” he said, taking a seat on a plastic chair near the food dishes.

“Hank!” Pongo sputtered, still trying to fend off the puppies’ tongues. “Hank! Help!”

“Nope,” Hank said, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms across his stomach. “This is for your own good.”

So Pongo was on his own. Okay. He could do this. He certainly didn’t want to hurt the puppies or do anything that would get them kicked out of the facility, so he would have to be careful. His first step would be getting off the ones that were trying to kiss him.

Pongo scoop up one of the puppies easily. They weren’t even that heavy, and Pongo could lift them up with ease. With one out of the way, it was easy to grab the second one that had been trying to lick his face. Not that he wasn’t distracted by them, he could sit up and hopefully get away.

But as soon as he tried doing just that, the one on his lap growled and yipped, jumping up to his chest and taking over the job of licking Pongo’s face. And Pongo only had two arms. The one at his shoes had latched onto his left one and was trying to pull it off of Pongo’s foot, apparently in love with this tug-of-war game it had found.

Pongo gasped as he lost hold of the two puppies he had grabbed and was now assaulted by three tongues once again. And then he was back to where he started—on his back and unable to get away. This time it was worse though, because there were three puppies at his face instead of two. Why couldn’t Hank just help him?!

Without an open network to connect to, Pongo’s programming could focus solely on the situation. However, while inside the room, he couldn’t access the weak, outside network he had had before. He couldn’t even look up how to appease St. Bernard puppies. They were too big and heavy and friendly for him to figure it out on his own.

Pongo tried grabbing the puppies again. He tried scooping one under his arm and pushing the others down between his legs. He tried rolling onto his stomach and crawling away from them.

The puppy chewing on his shoe succeeded in getting it off his foot and was now wrestling with his other one. His face was soaked in puppy drool and so were his bangs. Pongo was out of breath somehow, getting tired by this menial amount of exercise. Could this be counted as exercise?

Hank still wasn’t helping him.

Pongo lost track of time while he struggled. Which was strange. He usually kept track of time and how much of it passed. But it was hard to focus on anything else but puppies when they were all trying to rip his clothes off. He had lost both shoes now and one sock. The puppies had somehow dragged his arm out of one of his jacket sleeves and were chewing on the hem of his undershirt. They were still licking at his face.

Pongo gave up. Fighting with the puppies was exhausting, taxing his system much more than anything else he had done so far. Eventually, Pongo could do nothing but collapse on his back, staring up at the ceiling and accepting his fate as the puppies’ new chew toy. And they seemed to love it.

They clambered over him with renewed vigor, excited that he wasn’t protesting so much now. Eventually, though, they did grow bored. The one that had pulled off his shoes and one sock paused in the playtime to eat some food and get a drink of water. The two original ones that had been licking Pongo’s face first had started dozing on his lap now. The one that had started on his lap now curled next to his head, chewing lazily on his collar.

Pongo had almost forgotten about Hank until he leaned over him, a smug smile curving his lips.

“Having fun?” he said smugly.

Pongo huffed but with over eighty pounds on his lap and being as exhausted as he was, he couldn’t really get up at the moment.

“This isn’t therapy,” he said. “And I don’t understand why you won’t help me.”

“Admit you’re having fun,” Hank said, definitely _not_ helping Pongo.

Pongo frowned. “I’m having fun,” he said.

Hank tipped his head back and laughed, walking back to his seat and plopping back down. “You’re lying,” he said. “I can tell you’re lying.”

Pongo frowned harder and tried to sit up again. He got halfway up this time until the puppy that had been chewing on his collar let out a yelp of protest and grabbed the back of his shirt in its teeth, pulling him straight back down. Pongo didn’t have much of a choice but to lay there and not struggle too much.

The puppies eventually tired themselves out and fell asleep scattered on and around him. And Pongo found he actually didn't mind. Their weight on his chest and stomach and legs provided counterpoints for his programming to focus on. And with no other network, Pongo didn't really have a chance to focus on anything else. And it felt nice.

It actually felt nice.

“Having fun?” Hank asked again, still reclining smugly in his seat.

“No,” Pongo said honestly. “But this feels really nice. I like it. A lot.”

Hank huffed out a laugh. “I told you so.”

Pongo didn't like that he was so smug about it but let Hank have it. Besides, there wasn't much he could do. If he tried to get up off moved too quickly, the puppies would wake up, and Pongo definitely didn't want that. So he lay still, even closed his eyes like a human would.

Just then, a bell chimed softly from the corner of the room and an overhead speaker clicked on.

“You have. . . fifteen minutes. . . left in your time,” a robotic voice said. “Please clean up any toys you happened to use and prepare to say your goodbyes.”

Pongo opened his eyes then and looked up at Hank. “I don’t want to leave,” he said, surprising even himself.

Hank snorted. “That’s how most people are,” he said. “Still think this isn’t a good method of therapy?”

Pongo frowned. “Therapy is defined as—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank said, pushing himself to his feet and walking over to stand above Pongo. “Just shut up about definitions for two minutes.”

Pongo set the timer in his mind. 

Hank bent over and with a grunt, he lifted one of the puppies off of Pongo’s chest to help him get up. The puppy squirmed a little after being disturbed, but after Hank propped it in the crook of his arm, it settled down again and went back to sleep. With the rest of the puppies relatively exhausted, Pongo was able to scoop up two of his own and ease his feet out from under the third.

“Here,” Hank directed, setting his own puppy down on a beanbag that had been kicked out of the way.

With a little bit of coaxing, Pongo and Hank were able to get the three puppies all cuddled together in the cushion, still fast asleep. When Pongo turned to deal with the fourth one, he sighed. It hadn’t remained asleep like the others. In fact, as soon as the others had been gathered up, it had seemed to realize what was going on and was trying to initiate more play.

It yipped excitedly, grabbing one of Pongo's shoes and darting off to the far side of the room. It dropped its head to its front paws, wagging its tail so hard its butt shook along with it. Pongo winced when he noticed the sharp white teeth digging into the material of his shoe. That would definitely have to be buffed out.

“Here, boy,” Pongo coaxed because he was 87% sure that the dog was a boy. He held out a hand in the puppy's direction and crept forward. “That's right. Here, boy.”

The puppy yipped and jumped up, bouncing around the shoe. For a moment, Pongo thought that that had worked, but then the puppy grabbed the shoe in an even tighter grip and dragged it off under a chair, farther away from Pongo than before. Pongo sighed and shuffled forward, keeping his hands out.

“Here, boy,” he tried again. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Come on. I need my shoe.”

“I don't think that's gonna work,” Hank said, standing back by the beanbag with the three other puppies.

“I can't leave without my shoe,” Pongo said. Was he just supposed to walk out of the building barefoot? No, he would look like a slob. “Just give me a couple minutes.”

“Just remember,” Hank said. “We only have the room for ten more minutes. Then we gotta leave.”

Pongo frowned in concentration, setting another timer next to the first. He then focused more on trying to interpret the puppy’s movements, struggling to find some sort of pattern. But the puppy seemed to be spontaneous without any way to predict what it would do next. Pongo tried to herd him under the chair only to have the puppy dart between his legs to the other side of the room. When Pongo tried cornering him, the puppy slipped under his hands and ran back under the chair. 

Hank was laughing after three minutes and still hadn’t offered to help after five. The first timer Pongo had set had run out by that time, and he didn’t have much longer before he ran out of time completely.

“Are you going to help me?” he asked Hank, exasperated by the whole situation. “Because you can’t leave if I can’t leave, you know.”

“Nah, I think it’s more fun to watch you,” Hank said, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest.

Pongo frowned and mimicked him, crossing his arms over his chest and resisting the urge to lunge at the puppy as he crawled out from under the chair. Instead, he remained where he was, staring at Hank and determined not to be the first to budge. Hank didn't seem like he wanted to give any ground either. They stared at each other for a long moment, both daring then other to be the one that gave in. It was Hank that broke the silence.

“You know what?” he said with a clap of his hands. “How about this?”

He crossed the room in two steps and bent down, scooping the puppy up shoe and all. Easily. Pongo frowned. The puppy hadn't tried to run away from Hank _at all_. Strange.

The puppy squirmed in Hank's arms for a moment and then gave up, apparently too exhausted to continue fighting. Hank grabbed the shoe and pulled it out of the puppy's mouth with a gentle tug, offering it to Pongo.

“See?” Hank said. “That wasn’t so hard.”

Pongo narrowed his eyes at the puppy and slipped on his shoe, stooping to quickly tighten the laces. He was done in a moment and just in time too. The overhead speakers chimed and the robotic voice was back, telling them that their time was up and that they should promptly head to the lobby to return their keycard.

“Let's go,” Hank said, tucking the puppy under his arm, like it was a football. And then he walked out of the door before Pongo could question what was going on.

They closed the door behind them and the lock engaged with a click, officially locking them out of the puppy room. Pongo followed Hank down the hall and back to the front desk where the receptionist looked very surprised to see them.

“Oh my, who's this?” she said, leaning over the counter so she could get a better look at the puppy.

Hank grunted as he hoisted the puppy up and plopped him down on the counter. “This is the friendliest one.”

Pongo would argue against that point.

“We want to adopt him.”

Pongo blinked. He hadn't predicted that option. What was Hank doing? Hank clearly wasn't an animal person, he had strict boundaries and a specific lifestyle, and he barely took care of himself let alone keep another living thing alive with him.

“Oh, that's wonderful!” the receptionist said with a clap of her hands. She sat back in her chair and immediately began to fumble through paperwork, pulling out different files and forms. “Not everyone knows that this facility promotes the adoption of its animals. We hope to expose people to pets they normally wouldn't experience and hopefully get some of these little guys into good homes.”

“Of course,” Hank said, accepting the pen and paper that the woman slid over the counter to him.

The puppy yipped and tried to bite the pen.

The receptionist scooped him up and stood, tucking him under her arm just like Hank had. “I'll go get him a harness,” she said and disappeared through a door behind the counter.

“Are you sure you'll be able to take care of a dog?” Pongo asked. “St. Bernard's are a large breed and need a lot of care.” He was pulling data as fast as he could through his weak connection. “They need room and food and grooming—”

“Relax,” Hank said, scribbling his way through all the questions. “I've taken care of you and you're basically a dog.”

“I am not _basically_ a dog,” Pongo retorted. “I don't need food or water. I survive because I am not human. Will you be able to keep this thing alive?”

The receptionist pushed her way back through the door, carrying the puppy who now wore a blue nylon harness and leash. Not that he seemed to mind. He was panting happily and wagging his tail as hard as he could. The receptionist plopped him back down on the counter, and Hank scooped him up before he could scramble off anywhere. Before Pongo could continue to lecture Hank about the needs of dogs verses the needs of androids, Hank was plopping the puppy down in his arms.

“I won't be keeping it alive,” he said, giving the receptionist a thankful nod and then turning towards the door. “You are.”


	10. Chapter 10

Pongo was grateful to connect to an open network when they left the strange therapy place. He was less grateful for the puppy that was squirming in his lap, constantly trying to lean up and lick his face. Which was disgusting. Hank didn’t seem to care.

They had already stopped at a store already, and Hank had run in to buy puppy food, a couple different toys, and a collar. He had dumped everything on Pongo’s side of the car with no instructions and then taken off again. Pongo hoped they were going home. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could control the puppy by himself.

“You’re gonna have to name him,” Hank said as they pulled to a stop at a red light.

Pongo had never named anything before. He didn’t even name himself. How was he supposed to do that now?

He considered the puppy in his lap. He was less of a puppy and more of a dog. Forty pounds of muscle and energy that was squirming on his lap in excitement, continuing to try to lick him and demanding all of his attention. Pongo was struggling just to keep him in place.

“What if I don’t want to name him?” he asked Hank, hooking his fingers inside the puppy’s collar so that he had something to grip.

“What if I ordered you to name him?” Hank retorted.

Pongo chewed his lip and thought about it. It wasn’t like he was calibrated to assign identities to anything, so he opened up several new tabs in his mind to find something that would hopefully help. He first looked up a page on St. Bernard puppies. From there, he looked up Switzerland, since that was where the breed came from. He scrolled through for several seconds. The puppy was strong and tenacious, like some sort of wrestler. So Pongo opened a new tab to look up Swiss wrestling.

“What about Hoselupf?” he suggested.

Hank wrinkled his nose. “What is that?”

“Swiss wrestling,” Pongo said, figuring out that the puppy calmed down if he scratched him behind his ears. “It’s a form of grappling. I figured that because the puppy will be strong and grow up to be quite large, naming him after a form of combat would be good.”

“Hoselupf makes him sound like a muppet,” Hank said.

“He’s not a puppet though,” Pongo said with a frown. “I don’t see how that pertains.”

“I’m not about to give him a stupid ass name like Hoselupf,” Hank said, turning a corner rather sharply and making the puppy lose his balance and collapse on Pongo’s lap with a yelp. “That’s just being mean.”

Pongo frowned. Well, if Hank wanted a name then he could think of one himself. Pongo had just taken the most logical path from St. Bernard to wrestling. It made sense in his mind. He closed the tabs and helped the puppy back to his feet. He got a slobbery kiss for his troubles.

“How about Sumo?” Hank suggested. “That’s a type of wrestling, and it sounds a lot better.”

“Sumo wrestling is more about striking and shoving your opponent,” Pongo said, quickly pulling up a new page to read over. “Canines tend to do more grappling than striking. I don’t think they would ever strike.”

“It’s not about fighting style,” Hank said. They had finally arrived home, and Hank pulled into the driveway and then all the way into the garage. “It’s about a _name_. And Hoselupf is hard to say and Sumo is easy to say.”

Hank turned the care off and gave Pongo an annoyed look. “Just bring him inside,” he said and stepped out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

“Hoselupf,” Pongo said to himself, looking down at the puppy.

The puppy yipped at him and tried to lick his face.

“Sumo,” Pongo tried instead.

The puppy yipped again and tried to lick his face just like before.

Pongo sighed.

He opened the door and hefted the puppy under his arm, carrying everything else they had bought in his other hand. He was able to kick the door shut and then walked into the house. Maybe, if he continued to play dumb, he could get Hank to name the puppy. In all honesty, he needed the emotional support of an animal a lot more than Pongo did.

Hank was already in the kitchen, shuffling dishes around and getting ready to prepare some sort of late lunch or early dinner.

Pongo set Hoselupf/Sumo on the floor, keeping an eye on him but also letting him explore the new living space. The puppy scrambled off excitedly, ready to sniff and chew on anything in sight. Pongo carried all the rest of the supplies to the kitchen, setting the food and water bowls on the ground next to the fridge and the toys and leash on the table.

“Do you need me to do anything?” Pongo asked, trying to calculate the ingredients Hank had out already to see what he was making.

“How ‘bout you feed the dog,” Hank said, dropping a cube of butter into a skillet that he had on the stovetop. “And I’ll take care of the human food, alright?”

Pongo grinned. “Here, Hoselupf,” he called, dropping to a crouch and holding out a hand, trying to coax the puppy over to him.

“Don’t call him that!” Hank said, swatting Pongo’s head. “It’ll be even worse if he starts to respond to it. Call him Sumo.”

“Sumo?” Pongo said, trying to pull the name out of Hank completely. “If you insist.”

“I do insist,” Hank snapped, going to the cupboards to pull down other ingredients. “Because I’m not going to have a damn dog named Hoselupf.”

“Here, Sumo,” Pongo called, satisfied that Hank had been the one to name the dog and not himself. “Come here, boy.”

The puppy yipped happily and came running over, throwing himself into Pongo’s arms and slobbering all over his face. Pongo endured the slobber, mainly because he wanted to show Hank up. After about a minute of kissing, he finally pushed Sumo away.

“I’ll get some food for you,” he said, pushing himself to his feet.

He grabbed the bag of puppy chow off the counter and easily ripped it open. He calculated the perfect amount that Sumo would need and scooped it into the bowl using his hand. Immediately, Sumo was diving in face first, as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. While he ate, Pongo filled his water bowl in the sink and set it down next to the food bowl. As soon as Sumo had finished all the kibble, he drank his fill and sat back, panting up at Pongo in a very satisfied manner.

“Good boy,” Pongo told him, leaning down to pat him on the head.

Sumo licked his fingers.

“I’ve never trained a dog before,” Hank said, looking over from where he stood by the stove. “Don’t they just automatically know how to sit or something?”

“No,” Pongo said. “But I could easily look up videos on the subject. I’m sure it can’t be hard.” He looked back over his shoulder at Hank. It would be better if Hank trained Sumo himself, but just getting him to name the dog had been hard. Pongo could do this if he needed too. “I could do that if you need me to.”

Hank was making some sort of stir fry in the skillet now, stirring in chopped vegetables and spices into the cooked rice. “I sure as hell don’t have the time,” he said. “I’ll leave it up to you.”

Pongo immediately pulled up several videos in his mind, selecting the best ones and saving them for later. He could use kibble for treats if he needed. He wondered what sort of tricks Hank wanted Sumo to know. Probably the basic things like ‘sit’ and ‘heel’ and maybe ‘roll over.’ Pongo started a list in his mind. Perhaps, if he had enough space, he could even teach Sumo ‘fetch.’

“What a good boy you are, Sumo,” he said, scratching Sumo behind the ears. “Yes you are! What a good boy!” 

“You’re spoiling him already,” Hank said, scraping his mess of a dinner onto a single plate and setting it on the table. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and then sat down.

“He’s young,” Pongo said, pushing himself up and taking the seat across from Hank. “I think he deserves to be spoiled a bit. Don’t you?”

Hank grunted as he dug into his meal and didn’t respond.

“Will we go back to the station tomorrow?” Pongo asked, trying to keep up the conversation. It got too awkward when it was silent.

“I don’t know,” Hank said. “If we could follow that lead on the apartment building that would be great. But I don’t want to take you back there. They’ve probably been killing androids for their thirium if you saw that much all over the lobby.”

“I’ll be fine,” Pongo said. He wanted to help.

Hank laughed. “You would be fine until whoever’s cooking up the Red Ice got their hands on you. Then you would be the opposite of fine.”

Well, Pongo guessed that was the truth. Still, he didn’t like being characterized as helpless. It made him feel like he wouldn’t be able to help Hank if he needed too. If he couldn’t help Hank, then he was useless. And Pongo didn’t want to be useless.

“Leave it for tonight,” Hank said. “No point in worrying over it now. If the station calls, we’ll deal with it. For now, I want _you_ to relax.”

Pongo didn’t understand the human idea of relaxing.

“Okay,” he said anyway. “I’ll start working on a couple tricks with Sumo.”

Hank didn’t protest, so Pongo stood up from the table, spotting where Sumo had retreated into the living room, chewing once again on one of Pongo’s shoes. Pongo grabbed a handful of kibble and walked over to where he was laying.

“Here, boy,” he said, getting the puppy’s attention. “We’re going to learn how to sit.”

Sumo was reluctant to give up his shoe, but when Pongo revealed he had some sort of treat, he abandoned the shoe in a heartbeat, trotting up to Pongo and trying to jump up to steal the food.

“Ah, ah,” Pongo said, easily pulling his hand out of the way. “Not yet.”

He wasn't entirely sure why he was talking to the puppy. His programming told him that he couldn't understand anything he said. Still, something unconscious drove Pongo to do it. Maybe it was because the humans in the training videos playing at the back of his mind were doing it. Whatever the reason, it worked, so Pongo didn't see why he should stop now.

He reached around Sumo's curious nose and pressed his rump firmly down until he obliged and sat on the floor.

“Sit,” Pongo said, keeping his hand in place so that Sumo could associate the command with the action. “Good boy!”

He gave Sumo a treat, which Sumo happily gobbled up while still maintaining his sitting position.

“Good boy,” Pongo praised again. He moved his hand so that Sumo could stand back up and then repeated the action with the command again. “Sit.”

Another treat. Sumo ate it happily. Pongo moved his hand. They repeated the cycle all over again.

Hank continued to clean up the kitchen, washing the few dishes he had used and setting them aside to dry. He walked back into the bedroom without saying anything, but his light remained on which meant he hadn’t gone to sleep quite yet.

Pongo continued to repeat the trick with Sumo until the puppy was sitting all by himself when prompted by the command. After several more times, Pongo was sure that Sumo had it memorized and let him eat the rest of the handful of kibble he had grabbed.

“Good boy,” Pongo said, patting him on the head one last time. “But I do think it’s bedtime.”

Sumo yipped and jumped back, grabbing Pongo’s shoe in his mouth and running into the kitchen. Apparently bedtime was not going to be happening anytime soon for him. Pongo grabbed one of the toys Hank had bought, a stuffed rabbit with a small growler in its chest, and managed to bribe Sumo into giving up his shoe.

Pongo grabbed his other shoe as well and left them on the counter, just in case Sumo tried to nibble on them in the night. He then took off his jacket and hung it on a kitchen chair. He made sure that everything in the house was alright. Really, Pongo shouldn’t be turning himself off until Hank was asleep, but with no other orders and nothing else that really needed to be done, Pongo figured that there was no harm in dozing until he was needed again.

His mind remained black this time, which was a relief. The less Hank had to worry about, the better. And Pongo certainly didn’t want to be worried over.


	11. Chapter 11

Pongo didn’t expect to be back at the police station as soon as the next day, but when Hank said that that’s where he was going, Pongo had insisted he join him. Now, he was waiting patiently in the lobby, holding Sumo’s leash and looking for Hank to get out of his meeting with the higher-up officers.

He was getting strange looks from the other officers, but Pongo didn’t really care. All he had to do was watch after Sumo and wait for Hank. And he could do that perfectly. No need to concern himself with anything else.

The office with abuzz with its normal conversation, the clatter of keyboards, and the hum of machinery. It was a soft backdrop to everything, relaxing and reassuring and normal after the excitement of the last couple days. It was interrupted by a loud crash and sudden yelling.

Pongo jerked upright and turned, immediately spotting Hank through the glass walls of Captain Fowler's office. He was on his feet, chair tipped over behind him, and both fists planted on Captain Fowler's desk. He looked absolutely furious. He wasn't raising his voice loud enough for his clear words to carry, but the muffled shouting did pass slightly through the glass. It was obvious he was angry about something, Pongo just couldn't tell what.

He watched curiously, trying to figure out what had gone wrong.

Captain Fowler and Hank continued talking or arguing or whatever for several more minutes, going back and forth until Hank was red in the face. Finally, Hank swept a stack of papers off the desk, sending them crashing to the floor, and stormed out of the glass office.

“It's everything okay?” Pongo asked as soon as he was close enough. He jumped to his feet, trying not to pull too hard on Sumo's leash. The puppy was still getting used to the harness wrapped around his chest.

“Get in the car,” Hank snapped already bursting out the front doors and down the front steps.

“Come on, Sumo,” Pongo coaxed gently, getting the puppy to his feet and on the move.

Hank was already climbing behind the wheel when Pongo got out the front door. He had to stop and pick up Sumo since the puppy still had a hard time with stairs especially when they were in a hurry. At least Sumo didn't protest too much.

Pongo hurried as fast as he could, climbing into the passenger seat of Hank's already-running car. He settled Sumo on his lap, made sure the leash was pulled up, and the slammed the door.

“Is everything alright?” Pongo asked. He didn't even get a chance to buckle his seatbelt before Hank was pulling away from the curb and out into traffic.

“No,” Hank snapped. “Everything is _not_ okay. Everything is the opposite of okay.”

“What happened?” Pong asked. He really should buckle himself in. Hank had the tendency to drive over the speed limit when he was angry or irritated. 

“Captain Fowler sent another officer to investigate the apartment building,” Hank said, thankfully not taking his eyes off the road. “And they didn't come back.”

Pongo swallowed, not sure if he was understanding right. “You mean—”

“Captain Fowler isn't optimistic,” Hank continued. “And neither am I. That lead was supposed to be _mine_. _I_ was supposed to go back to the building, not anyone else.”

“Do you think they're dead?” Pongo asked.

Hank just sighed.

Death was a foreign concept to Pongo. He could understand being shut down. He could understand the darkness that came whenever he temporarily powered down to charge. He couldn't imagine never waking back up again after that. That was the concept that was foreign to him. He couldn't imagine the endless darkness he would face once he had lived out his usefulness, and he had no idea what happened to humans once they outlived their own times.

“Where are we going?” Pongo asked instead, wanting to change the topic so as not to upset Hank.

“Home,” Hank said. “We're dropping off Sumo and then going out.”

Pongo shut his mouth and didn't question it.

Pongo liked the collective pronouns and the group identification that Hank had adopted, but the circumstances were far from ideal. While he had wanted to connect with Hank and slot himself into his life as a companion and helper, Pongo never wanted it to happen this way. He never wanted Hank to hurt.

The rest of the ride back to the house was silent. Pongo didn't want to press for any conversation, and Hank wasn’t about to continue it on his own.

Once they arrived, Pongo dutifully carried Sumo back inside and unclipped his leash. He made sure the food and water bowls were each full and that all of Sumo's toys were scattered across the floor took keep him occupied while he was alone. Pongo scratched him behind the ears one last time, got a slobbery kiss for his troubles, and then walked back to the garage, climbing back into his seat.

Hank wordlessly shifted gears and backed out of the driveway and then back out into the street.

After several minutes of driving in even heavier silence, they pulled up in front of a bar, and a rundown once at that. The place looked to be the exact opposite of safety, and Pongo was reluctant to even step out of the vehicle, hoping that Hank had made some sort of mistake in his directions.

But Hank stopped out of the vehicle without hesitation though, and Pongo didn't have much of a choice but to follow him.

The inside of the bar was perhaps even worse than the outside. Poorly lit with grimy floors and a bartender that looked like he was on a Most Wanted list, it was like a seedy bar had birthed a child that was raised by thugs. Hank didn't seem to mind. He marched straight up to the bar, slid onto a stool, and flagged down the bartender.

“Samuel Adams,” Hank said.

Pongo took the seat next to him and also raised his hand to the bartender. “Samuel Adams,” he said, not sure if that was the man's name or if they were asking for someone else.

The bartender gave him a strange look but bent below the counter and reappeared with two brown bottles of beer. He uncapped them and slid the both across the counter, one in front of Hank and the other in front of Pongo.

“You drink?” Hank said, giving Pongo a strange look as he grabbed his bottle and took a swig.

“Not exactly,” Pongo said, grabbing his own bottle and bringing it up to smell it. “I can’t get intoxicated like you so alcohol doesn’t really have any effect on me. I can still ingest it of course, but it doesn’t—”

“Okay, okay,” Hank said, waving a hand at him. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Pongo shrugged and took a drink. It would be hard to clean out of his stomach cavity, but that wouldn't be too much of a hassle. The beer was tart and sour, yeasty and bubble-y in Pongo's mouth. He swallowed quickly, giving the bottle a hard look. He certainly hadn't been expecting that.

He took another drink.

Hank downed the rest of his beer in three more gulps and then ordered another one, passing the empty bottle back to the bartender. He took one drink from this new one, staring down at his hands. He seemed content to nurse this bottle for a while, not as desperate to get the alcohol inside his body.

Pongo took another drink from his bottle, neutralizing his face so he didn’t show his disgust since the taste wasn’t all entirely pleasant. Hank didn’t seem bothered by the taste so Pongo didn’t want to be either.

They drank in silence. Hank finished his second bottle and ordered something different. This came in a stout glass, the amber liquid poured over a few ice cubes before being passed over. Hank nursed this just as slowly as he had the second beer, finished it, and then ordered another one. Pongo finished his second bottle and got another one, earning another strange look from the bartender.

“That was supposed to be _my_ mission,” Hank finally said, tapping a finger against the side of the foggy glass. “ _I_ was supposed to be investigating that building. Not any of those other officers.”

“You regret that they died?” Pongo asked quietly.

“I regret everything,” Hank said, glaring down at the wooden counter. “Every-fucking-thing.”

“It's not your fault,” Pongo said. “You did not tell them to go to the apartment building and didn't give them their assignment. The situation was out of your control.”

“It should have been _in_ my control,” Hank said. “You're an android. You don't understand.”

Pongo frowned and took a drink of his second beer. “I don't see how my being an android can stop me from understanding,” he said. “When Cyberlife created me, they intended for me to understand humans in any way—”

“Do you ever shut up?” Hank snapped.

Pongo shut up.

He nursed his beer slowly but finished it quickly with nothing else to do. He ordered another beer. Hank finished his glass and ordered a third one.

“I wish I had a damn human to drink with,” he mumbled. “What a fucking joke I am, drinking with a fucking android that can't even get drunk.”

It was true that Pongo couldn't get drunk, not really, but he could certainly _act_ drunk. Pongo shifted his center if balance off its normal axis and then raised his body temperature to bring a flush into his cheeks. He turned down his speech centers as well and applied several blocks to his network access so that he couldn't just look any little thing up. Was this how humans acted while drunk? Pongo was about to find out.

“I can _totally_ get drunk,” Pongo slurred. The words tumbled out of his mouth in such a mess that Pongo even surprised himself. He tried again. “But I am _not_ drunk now.”

Hank was laughing before Pongo could say anything else. Maybe it was the amount of alcohol that he had had, maybe it was something else, but he tipped his head back and belly-laughed at the ceiling. He had barely shown any sort of emotion around Pongo before, so Pongo was going to guess that it was the alcohol. 

“What's wrong?” Pongo slurred, not understanding what was so funny.

Hank just laughed even harder until he was wheezing and gasping for breath. “Are you _actually_ drunk?” he finally managed to ask. “Because that is hilarious.”

Pongo grinned, glad he had managed to lighten the mood. His head was spinning though, and he was desperate to reconnect to his network and search if he was doing a good job or not.

“What’s drunk?” he asked.

Hank laughed even harder. “Fuckin’ androids,” he muttered, more to himself than to Pongo. But it didn’t sound like an insult this time. It almost sounded like a term of affection.

Pong brought his beer up to his mouth for another drink and attempted to look up if 'fuckin’ androids’ was a compliment or not. But with his blocks in place, he received a sharp zap on the back of his mind, making him sputter into his drink, almost spitting it out. Which only made Hank laugh harder than before.

“That’s it,” Hank said, reaching over and grabbing his bottle from him. “I’m cutting you off. I can’t believe after two beers you can’t even control yourself.”

Pongo could very much control himself, but Hank seemed to appreciate having someone to take care of, so Pongo kept his settings as they were and let Hank take away his alcohol. He even pretended to make a half-hearted grab at it to really sell the act.

“Don’t be greedy,” Hank said, slapping Pongo’s hand away. When Pongo reached for the bottle again, he shoved his shoulder.

Normally, Pongo would’ve been able to absorb the shock and stay on his feet, but with his center of gravity off the way it was, the unexpected hit actually shifted him off the bar stool and he couldn’t recover his balance in time. He collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut onto the greasy floor of the bar.

Hank didn’t laugh this time. Instead, he huffed and finished the rest of drink in one go. He then pulled his wallet out, fumbling with a couple bills and slapping them down on the counter. He pushed himself to his own feet, swaying a bit but staying upright.

“Alright,” he said, bending down and scooping Pongo up under his arms. “That’s enough for you.”

“I’m fine,” Pongo said, trying to pushing away from Hank. But the moment he didn’t have any support, his legs threatened to give out, and Pongo certainly didn’t want the embarrassment of falling a second time. He clung to Hank in sullen defeat.

“There we go,” Hank coaxed, walking him towards the door of the bar. “Damn, you drank way too much.”

Pongo couldn't keep his feet under himself and that was frustrating. He wanted desperately to return his settings back to normal but Hank was _helping_ him and they were _bonding_ and Hank wasn't looking at him like he hated him. It was comforting, albeit a little frustrating that it had taken a degenerate activity like this to get them here.

“Easy, easy,” Hank coaxed, walking him down the sidewalk and back towards the car. “Damn, you can hardly stay on your feet.”

“Not my fault,” Pongo mumbled. Actually, it was. But he had to admit, this was kind of fun, being all unstable and tipsy and unable to talk right. Sure he wasn’t being the perfect, obedient android, but being ‘drunk’ was just as fun.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank said, yanking open the passenger door and easing Pongo down into his seat. “I’m gonna get you home.”

He walked over to the driver’s side, fastening his seatbelt and then selecting the ‘home’ option on the car’s navigation system. The vehicle easily settled into self-driving mode, the wheel spinning on its own as the car took over. Pongo was glad Hank wasn’t going to try to drive by himself, and Pongo was certainly in no condition to drive. They would make it home safely with the car's help.

“Are you actually drunk?” Hank asked, relaxing back into his seat and folding his hands on his lap.

Pongo looked over to him, blinking in surprise when his vision swung too wide probably due to his center of balance being off for so long. He re-corrected it with a blink and gave Hank a sloppy smile. “No,” he said confidently.

Hank snorted. “Yeah right,” he said. “And I’m the best officer in the Detroit PD. Let’s get your drunk ass home.”

“I’m not drunk,” Pongo insisted again, just because the words always seemed to make Hank smiled. He knew by now that there wasn’t much of a point in insisting that his ‘drunken’ state wasn’t because of the alcohol but instead his own doing. Hank didn’t seem to understand anyway.

The car ride home was surprisingly . . . giggly. The world outside kept shifting back and forth in Pongo’s perspective, the road swelling and collapsing and the lights all blurring together. It was wonderful, and he couldn’t help but laugh. And Hank seemed to giggle every time he giggled, probably laughing at him, but Pongo didn’t mind. 

They were both happy.

Pongo blinked and the next thing he knew, they were pulling into the driveway of Hank’s house. The car was shutting itself off and popping open its doors so Hank and Pongo could climb out. It was a very polite car.

“Alright,” Hank said, undoing his seatbelt and tossing it aside. “You stay there. You are in no condition to walk.”

“I can walk,” Pongo protested, fumbling to undo his own seat belt. He pushed himself out of his seat, but the moment his feet hit the concrete, his legs gave out and he collapsed.

“Woah! Woah!” Hank said, grabbing him before his head could collide with the ground. Not that it mattered. That wouldn’t have hurt Pongo. “Easy. I said stay put, you tin bucket.”

“Androids are not actually made from tin,” Pongo mumbled, letting himself be picked up by Hank. It was frustratingly fun not to be able to stand. “All of your human insults seem to center around tin, and yet, I am not made of it.”

“Yeah?” Hank said, looping one of Pongo’s arms over his shoulder and hoisting him up. “What are you made of?”

“Metal,” Pongo said. He couldn’t look up android blueprints so the specific materials evaded him.

“Tin _is_ metal,” Hank said, kicking open his front door and walking them into the living room.

The lights were already on, and Sumo was sleeping over in the kitchen with a toy between his paws. As soon as they stumbled through the doorway, however, he jumped to his feet and started barking. Pongo’s auditory receptors were also pitched completely off of their normal settings, and the sudden high-pitched yapping made him wince.

“Sumo, be quiet!” Hank snapped. “Yeah, you’re a good boy, now go get your toy.” He kicked a ball across the living room and Sumo scampered after it with glee. “You and I are going to the bathroom,” Hank said, dragging Pongo down a hallway he hadn’t gone before.

The bathroom wasn’t any more impressive than the rest of the house. Dingy, tiny, and only made for one person. And that person was Hank. His towels, his washcloths, his combs, and his products were strewn about. This was no place for an android that had no need for personal hygiene.

“I’m not tin,” Pongo insisted, fumbling to drag his shirt up. “I’ll show you.”

He took off his skin and opened his stomach compartment without thinking, and then beer was spilling everywhere.

“Oh, gross!” Hank exclaimed, shoving Pongo into the tub. “What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Pongo said, as he flopped down against the porcelain. He didn’t have the balance to try to stay on his feet so he didn’t even try. He just closed himself back up as fast as he could. “Um, I’ll stay in the tub until it’s all drained out?”

“You’d better,” Hank said, pulling at his dripping clothes with disgust. “I’m going to go get changed. And then pass out.” He winced and ground the heel of a hand against his eyes. “I want to forget that today ever happened.”

Pongo smiled, but Hank was already turning his back and walking out of the bathroom.

Now that he was alone, Pongo readjusted his settings so that they were back to normal and his head was much clearer than before. He took stock of his body, finding a couple scrapes and bruises that were already healing themselves. All-in-all, he was okay. Pongo hiked his shirt up to his neck and pinned it there with his chin. He dissolved his skin with a touch and then opened his stomach compartment.

A huge rush of beer spilled out of him into the tub, flowing easily down the drain. Pongo had to twist in order to dump the last of it out of his compartment. He then sat up the best he could with his legs still hooked over the side of the tub. He grabbed some sort of loofa off the side of the tub and turned the water on just enough to get it wet. He scrubbed himself out thoroughly and then set the loofa aside.

He left himself open to air dry which was the best option. If he tried to towel himself dry, he may miss some moisture and end up with rusted insides. Air drying was best, and Pongo could easily shut himself down and be ready to go in the morning.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thirium physics are wack :/

“Pongo, wake up! Get your ass out of my tub.”

Pongo blinked and Hank came into view. He was leaning over his sink, wearing boxers and a loose t-shirt, brushing his teeth. And Pongo was still in the tub, shirt hitched up and his stomach compartment still open. Half his skin was off too.

Pongo quickly made himself decent, slightly embarrassed that Hank had seen him all spread out like that, and that was an odd feeling in and of itself.

“Sorry,” he said, pushing himself up and fumbling to climb out of the tub. He managed to get to his feet though and pull himself together a bit more, dusting off his pants and straightening his jacket. “Uh, are you feeling alright this morning?” It was morning, right? His internal clock said so.

“Sure,” Hank said, spitting foam into the sink and then rinsing his mouth. “Better than you I’m guessing.”

Pongo didn’t have the heart to tell him what had actually happened.

“I’m feeling much better though,” he said. “It was . . . something that I wasn’t used to.”

“If you stay with me, you’ll figure out alcohol pretty fast,” Hank said, rinsing his mouth a second time and then wiping his face off with a washcloth. “That’s how you cope with the world.”

Pongo wasn’t sure if that was right but he didn’t question it. He stepped up so that he was side-by-side with Hank at the sink. It wasn’t really made for two people and neither was the mirror, but if they stood shoulder to shoulder, it was an easy fit.

It was the first time Pongo had seen himself, and it was jarring. He was younger than he expected. He had been spending so much time around all of the police officers, he had kind of just imagined himself just like them. But he really looked more like a college-aged student, clean shaven and clean-cut hair. He was also skinny, face narrow and cheekbones high.

“Are you done pruning?” Hank said, elbowing him aside and lathering up his cheeks with foam. “You don’t even grow hair.” 

Pongo was shoved out of the frame of the mirror and almost completely out of the sink. He maintained his corner though, just his small patch of porcelain. Pongo frowned.

“I was just looking,” he said. “You’re looking.”

Hank was dragging a blade down his jaw now, making a face to stretch the skin so he didn’t cut himself. Shaving, Pongo’s quick search told him. Hank finished his stroke and tapped the foam off into the sink. “I’m doing more than looking,” he said, shooting a look at Pongo. “Doing more than you.”

Pongo frowned and grabbed the bottle that Hank had gotten the foam out of.

“Hey, hey!” Hank said, but Pongo was already squeezing some out onto his hands and was rubbing it up.

He pulled up a video in his mind and mimicked Hank as he spread it across his cheeks. The person in the video did his chin and neck, so Pongo lathered that up too.

“God damn it,” Hank spat. “You don’t even have hair to shave.”

“So?” Pongo said. He looked around for another blade, not sure where Hank had gotten his. “Why does that matter?”

“Do you even know _why_ people shave?” Hank asked.

“No,” Pongo said, opening the second drawer of the sink and finally finding the shaving blades. He grabbed one and straightened back up. “Does it matter?” He nudged his way back where he could see himself in the mirror again. He looked odd with the white foam covering half of his face.

“Yeah, it matters,” Hank said. “Because you’re supposed to shave hair.”

Pongo was already dragging the blade down his cheek and scraping the foam away. It didn’t hurt, and he was able to maintain the perfect distance so there was no risk of cutting himself. He wasn’t about to get hurt and he wanted to show Hank he could do this.

“Fine,” Hank said, elbowing him over so he had a bit more room at the mirror for himself. “But, God damn it, give me enough room too.”

They shaved side-by-side then. Pongo continued following the tutorial in his mind, occasionally checking his work against Hank’s to see if he was doing it right. He tapped off his blade the same time as Hank and copied most of his strokes too. Hank finished before him, obviously, and grabbed a washcloth to wipe down whatever traces of foam were left and then rocked back. He strained his head this way and that, checking his work. He smirked at Pongo, who still had foam streaked across his chin and neck, and snorted.

“Have fun,” he said and walked out of the bathroom.

Pongo frowned but wanted to finish. Following the video that was still playing in his mind, he continued scraping the blade alone his skin until he had gotten all the areas he had covered in foam. He grabbed the same washcloth that Hank had used and wiped down his face, making sure he got all the little bits were gone and he was clean once again. He examined his work, even though there was absolutely no difference.

Pongo was proud of himself.

He joined Hank out in the kitchen, feeding an overly excited Sumo and making sure the water in his dish was fresh. Hank was preparing some sort of egg scramble for himself. Pongo had spent the entire night charging so he was contented to watch Sumo and Hank eat for themselves.

“I got a call from the station,” Hank said in between bites. “We’re going in today.”

Pongo smiled at the collective pronouns. “Alright,” he said. “When do you want to leave?”

“As soon as I’m done with breakfast,” he said, pausing to take a drink of coffee. “Leave Sumo in the backyard. He’ll be fine and we’ll only be gone part of the day, I think.”

“Alright,” Pongo said. “I’ll make sure to leave out some food for him too.”

Since it would take Hank several more minutes to finish eating, Pongo decided to busy himself with getting the backyard ready for Sumo. Pongo grabbed two large bowls from a cupboard, large enough that there would be no risk of Sumo running out of food or water. Pongo also collected a few of Sumo's tougher toys, chewy squeakers and rubber balls and took them with him as well.

Hank's backyard wasn't the biggest but it was well maintained. The grass was kept trimmed and low and even though there were no flowerbeds or ornamental decorations, it still looked nice and inviting. And there was a grill set up on a small stone patio so it wasn't completely empty. A tall wooden fence contained the entire area, so tall that Pongo couldn’t see over it.

Pongo quickly arranged the bowls of food and water on the stone patio, making sure they were pressed against the house so they would be harder to knock over. He scattered the toys around the yard a bit, leaving them in places so that Sumo could find and play with them. Satisfied that everything was okay and that Sumo wouldn’t become bored while they were gone, Pongo headed back inside.

Hank had finished his breakfast at that point and was washing up the dishes, whistling at Sumo and letting him dance around his feet. He stopped when he noticed Pongo.

“You ready?” he asked, shaking the water off his mug and setting it aside to dry.

Pongo nodded. “I’ll put Sumo out.” He scooped up the puppy and then carrying him outside. He endured a couple kisses and gave Sumo extra scratches behind his ears. “Good boy,” he said. “Yes, you’re a good boy.”

Sumo yipped excitedly and danced around, so Pongo scooped up a ball and tossed it to the far side of the yard.

“Play by yourself,” he called. “Hank and I need to go.”

_Hank and I._ Pongo smiled after he said it and then hurried back inside.

Hank was already pulling on his jacket and shoes, but Pongo was already dressed and ready to go. He didn’t have to wait for long before Hank was leading the way out to the car. Pongo took his designated seat on the passenger side, buckling his seatbelt.

“Do you have new leads to follow?” Pongo asked as Hank manually backed the car up and pulled out into the road.

“Just the old ones,” Hank said. “We’re going back to the apartment building, gonna see if we can find out anything more. And if we’re lucky, find out who’s making and distributing Red Ice around Detroit.”

A real-life police case! Pongo was excited. He vaguely remembered what had happened the last time they had gone to the apartment building and every time he tried to access those memories, a sharp ringing would entire his mind and become painful to the point where he would just give up. It didn’t matter. He vaguely understood where they were going and that was all that really mattered.

They bypassed the route to the station, instead heading straight for the apartment building. They drove through the same dingy part of town with the people that stared at them angrily from the sidewalk and the buildings that looked like they shouldn’t be lived in. Hank pulled to a stop in front of the same apartment building that towered up out of the cracked concrete of its parking lot.

“Here,” Hank said, passing him a black beanie with the PD logo emblazoned on it. “Flip it inside out and put that on. Pull it on low enough to hide your LED.”

“Where do you get police hats?” Pongo asked, dutifully pulling it on.

“They hand them out in candy bags,” Hank said, unloading all his pockets into the backseat. “Where do you think I got it?”

“The police station?” Pongo said.

“No, you idiot,” Hank said with a roll of his eyes. “Just, don't be stupid like before. Don't scan anything like before and if I get threatened, don't throw yourself head-first into a fist.”

“Alright,” Pongo said, cataloging all the orders so he could remember them later.

“Let me do the work,” Hank said. “And you stay out of the way as much as possible.”

Pongo nodded and, with his new hat pulled low on his forehead, they climbed out of the car together and started towards the building.

Pongo double checked his settings, shifting his center of balance so that he was more stable, raising his body temperature so that it more closely matched a human's, and making sure his skin looked convincing. Hank pushed open the front doors, and suddenly, they were in.

There was a different person behind the front counter this time, a tough-looking guy with muscles bulging out of the sleeves of his tank top. He wasn't on a phone and he wasn't typing on a computer. He was just sitting there, waiting, staring. He frowned when they walked through the doors.

“Let me do the talking,” Hank muttered as they walked forward.

Pongo sealed his mouth shut.

“Can I help you?” the man behind the counter asked, not rising from his seat but leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yeah, I just have a search warrant for this place,” Hank said, slapping a piece of paper down on the counter. “I’d like a couple hours to look around, nothing more.”

The guy scoffed and sneered. “Fine,” he said, gesturing to the abundance of doors on either side of the reception desk. “Knock yourself out.”

Hank smiled. “Why, thank you. Come on, Pongo.”

Hank seemingly chose a door at random and pushed through, leading the way into a hallway lined with even more doorways. Pongo followed close behind, still keeping his mouth shut. He didn't try to look anything up, just like Hank ordered, even though he was itching to try to find blueprints of the building.

“I wonder if anyone else is here,” Hank mumbled as he walked.

“I could check,” Pongo offered. “With a scan, I could locate any open networks and if there are any androids in the immediate vicinity.”

Hank gave him a quick look, chewing his bottom lip as he thought. “Fine,” he said. “But you do it quick, and if there's any sign of trouble, you immediately pull back and tell me. I'm not risking you again. Not after last time.”

“Alright,” Pongo said. He wasn't entirely sure why Hank was so worried about him, but it was kind of nice. “I promise. The moment things feel off, I'll tell you.”

And with that, he opened up his network and began scanning the area for any fellow androids. It took a bit. The thick walls slowed down his loading rates, making him sluggish and heavy, like he was weighed down by a million clouds. He sifted through the rooms systematically, going up and down and left and right.

And then he found it.

He connected with an android network, immediately flooded with the conscious.

AX400. Male. Responded to Kevin. Biocomponents failing, failing, failing.

Kevin was scared, and that terror jumped through his network, slamming into Pongo like a stone against his skull. He immediately pulled back, remembering Hank’s warning, but he wasn’t fast enough. For a moment, he somehow saw through Kevin’s eyes. The blurry room came into view for an instant, for a brief instant, and Pongo was able to see the bloody blue carnage.

And then Pongo was back in his own body, Hank grabbing his arm and shaking him like a rag doll.

“What did I say?” he hissed. “And the moment you do something you start having a seizure.”

“I saw something!” Pongo said. “I saw! It was another android!”

Hank scowled but at least stopped shaking him. “Where was it?” he asked. “You did find where it was right? Don’t tell me you need to go searching through your mind or whatever again. I won’t let you.”

“I saw where he was,” Pongo said. “I can—I can lead you to him, if you want?”

Hank still looked angry, but less angry than before. He wouldn’t let go of Pongo’s arm. In fact, he clung even tighter. He stared at Pongo long and hard and then finally sighed. “Fine,” he said. “But don’t go running anywhere. I’ll take the lead. And if anything happens, you have to promise me you’ll run straight back to the car and stay there until I come get you.”

“Promise,” Pongo said. It wasn’t excitement in his chest. It wasn’t fear either. He was doing _something_ , and that alone was making his mind race. He didn’t smile. “I promise.”

“Alright then,” Hank said, still not letting go of his arm. “Lead the way.”

So Pongo led the way. He had a vague layout of the building now, a rough map that he could navigate through. He went searching for Kevin, knowing that somewhere in this horrible hulking place there was a room with an android in it, and that android was wounded in a way that made him terrified beyond belief.

They had to go up two floors and take three different left turns before they stopped in front of a plain-looking door. They hadn’t seen anyone so far other than the guy behind the front desk, which was strange. But Pongo ignored that fact and reached for the door knob.

Hank yanked him back.

“What did I say about me going first?” he snapped and then grabbed the door knob.

He opened the door without any hesitation, just throwing it open and stepping back as if something would come lunging out.

Nothing did.

Pongo wanted to rush inside.

“Hang on,” Hank said, grabbing his gun from his belt. He had to let go of Pongo’s arm as he cocked and readied it, but Pongo obediently hung back. Hank eased into the room, scanning the area with his gun and then stepping out of the way to let Pongo inside.

When Pongo entered, he immediately spotted Kevin. The poor broken android was slouched on the floor, biocomponents practically ripped out of his stomach cavity and dripping fresh blue blood. It had to be fresh because it was still visible as a puddle that oozed across the flood. His skin was half-on, half-off.

“Mother of God,” Hank breathed out.

Pongo rushed to the android, fumbling to connect with its network. But it was too late. Kevin was gone. There was nothing left to connect to, the only way for him to collect clues was now gone.

“Oh, no,” Pongo said. He stood up and back from Kevin, not wanting to disturb the android now frozen in its last moments.

“Pongo, get away from there,” Hank said, grabbing the back of his shirt collar and yanking him away from the scene. “Don’t touch anything.”

Pongo didn’t want to touch anything. Not anymore.

“Look at this,” Hank mumbled.

Pongo looked away from the android to where Hank was gesturing. Hank must’ve been talking about the giant blue drums that were propped on the other side of the room, sealed tight from what it looked like. Other android parts like arms and legs and torsos were strewn across the room, discarded haphazardly and carelessly. 

“Thirium,” Hank muttered.

He walked over to the blue barrels, letting go of Pongo as he left. He had to take out his phone and use its flashlight just to see. He scanned over the top of the barrels, pausing at a slip of paper and picking it off. He studied it for a moment and then offered it to Pongo.

“Store this,” he said.

Pongo took and swallowed it without question.

Hank took pictures of the rest of the room, including Kevin. The cell phone flash reflected horribly off the puddle of blue blood, and Pongo had to look away. But then Hank was tugging him out of the room, closing the door behind him and tucking his gun and phone back in his pocket. He dusted himself off and gave Pongo a stern look.

“You good?”

Pongo nodded. “Yes, I'm good.”

“Excuse me?”

Pongo spun around at the new voice and gulped when he saw the man towering at the end of the hall. He wore a ripped, white tank top and tattered jeans. The bulge of a firearm was obvious on his waistline, and the rest of him was absolute, pure muscles. Twin snake tattoos curled down his left arm, digging their fangs into his knuckles and sporting vicious red eyes.

“Can I help you?” he rumbled with a voice that was deeper than anything Pongo had ever heard. “I don't think you're supposed to be here.”

“We have a warrant,” Hank said, yanking Pongo behind him. His other hand went back to his own gun, not drawing it but getting ready to.

“Warrant my ass,” the man snapped. “You won't need a warrant if you don't leave here alive.” And then he drew his gun.

Hank was shoving Pongo back towards the stairs, hard enough that he stumbled and almost fell. But then he was back on his feet, running without looking back over his shoulder. He didn't need an order to change his mind. He knew exactly what Hank wanted him to do without yelling it. Hank still shouted anyway, breaking the code that forced Pongo to stay close to him.

“Pongo, run!!” 


	13. Chapter 13

A gunshot went off before Pongo even made it to the stairs. He didn’t stop to calculate who it came from though. There was no eruption of pain and he didn’t hear Hank cry out, so as far as he was concerned, everything was still under control. All he knew was that he had to get out of there as fast as possible.

Pongo ducked on instinct when another gunshot went off, rounding the corner just in time as a bullet ricocheted off the wall and buried itself in the plaster near his shoulder. That wouldn't have shut him down, but it definitely would have hurt. Pongo gulped and ran a little lower than before.

He opted against the elevator, not wanting to get trapped in such a tiny place if it did come down to fisticuffs. Plus, while the spiral staircase was more open, it had plenty of corners and hiding places that Pongo could duck behind. It was his best chance of getting back to the lobby in all one piece, and he was going to take it.

Pongo made it down one flight and two turns of stairs before a door one turn away from him burst open and two more thugs rushed in. They looked just as deadly as the first one with heavy boots, black t-shirts, and snake tattoos on their necks. They both smiled when they saw Pongo.

“Why, look what we have here,” the one on the left said, pulling a gun out of his belt and cocking it.

“A stray android,” the one on the right said, doing the same thing.

“We can always use the extra thirium,” Left said.

Pongo didn't think.

He grabbed the railing of the staircase, took half a second to calculate the remaining distance to the ground floor, and then he vaulted over into empty air. The thugs were caught so off guard that they didn't even try to shoot, they just rushed to the edge to watch him fall.

And Pongo fell.

He should have thought through the plan a bit more because now he was free falling with no way to slow himself down. And the landing was carpet-covered concrete and not much else. He had less than thirty feet to go and needed a solution before twenty feet.

Pongo readied the joints in his arm, strengthening the different wires and bolts but at the same time keeping it loose. It would be way too damaging if he didn’t do this right, and getting his arm ripped off due to gravity would definitely not help him escape. The chords tightened and once they were at their maximized density, Pongo twisted himself midair and grabbed the nearest railing to him.

He was yanked to a stop suddenly, and not all of his systems appreciated the break. His motor systems were left reeling as they tried to orientate to his now dangling predicament and figure out what was up and down and left and right. Not to mention his entire frame ached under the stress. Pongo grunted, fingers almost losing their grip on the railing, but he managed to stay where he was.

“Hey! What the fuck?” one of the men shouted from above him.

“Damn android is insane!” the other yelled.

Pong wasn’t really paying attention. He was less than ten feet from the ground floor and could now drop safely without hurting himself any more than he already had. Pongo let go of the railing and dropped.

His feet ached as much as his shoulder did when he hit the ground but he didn’t let that stop him. Pongo jumped up and continued running. He could navigate the building easy enough, the layout stretched in his mind, and Pongo slipped through the doors and down the hallways easily. He burst out into the lobby, foolishly thinking that he was safe.

The guy behind the desk was standing in the middle of the room though, already leveling a gun at Pongo's chest with a smirk.

“Hey, bitch.”

Pongo ducked on pure instinct, his programming combined with Hank's orders driving him down before he could even blink. Pongo's chest hit the floorboards harder than he anticipated, almost knocking the oxygen out of his bellows. He didn't get a chance to stop and think.

The gun went off with an echoing bang. The bullet whizzed over Pongo's head. The guy was reloading before Pongo even had a chance to recover. 

“Beginner's luck,” the guy spat. “But I don't miss twice.”

Pongo scrambled to his feet in a panic, locating the door and bolting for it. He listened for the telltale click of the gun about to fire, ready to duck again if it happened. He slipped out the door only to have the glass shatter behind him as the man fired and missed for a second time. The man shouted some swear word, cursing Pongo's existence as he fumbled with another bullet. Pongo didn't give him another chance. He just started running.

Pongo didn’t look back. He didn’t dare. You only got lucky twice in the case of firearms and Pongo wasn't about to risk a third time.

He had to get back to the car, like Hank wanted. The car was a safe spot. It was his goal. It sat on the opposite side of the parking lot, and Pongo could pick out a perfect zig-zag pattern he could take to maximize the amount of cover he could get. Pongo was running before his could overthink his plan.

First stop, a light pole with a concrete base wide enough for him to crotch behind. Pongo made it just in time as a bullet ricocheted over the stone near his head, showering him in concrete dust.

Pongo took a moment to breathe, but he needed to run while the man was reloading. He jumped to his feet.

Next stop, a car that was parked haphazardly in the parking lot in a row all by itself. Pongo dove behind the wheels just as one deflated with a bang, leaving the car at an angle.

Next stop, Hank's car.

Pongo paused in his hiding spot, trying to formulate a different plan.

He couldn’t just run. Not only would that put himself in danger, but getting inside Hank’s car wouldn’t provide him much protection. The tires were just as vulnerable and the windows could be shattered the same way. Pongo wouldn’t be able to just sit there, especially if the guy was chasing after him with the gun, but Hank’s orders were explicit.

Get to the car and stay there.

Pongo swallowed hard and turned down his noise sensitivity. He peeked back over the hood of the car, spotting the man with his gun. His mouth moved as if he were shouting and his lifted the gun again when he saw Pongo. There was a brief flash of light as it went off, but Pongo couldn’t hear it. Once he was sure the man was busy reloading, Pongo pushed off the car and made a mad dash for Hank’s vehicle.

He opened the passenger side and dove across the seats so hard that his shoulder collided with the opposite door. Pongo scrambled to get himself oriented in the seat, upright and behind the wheel. He didn’t even bother buckling himself in. Hank had left the keys in the cup holder and Pongo grabbed them.

He felt the vehicle rumble to life beneath him, rather than hear it. Pongo grimaced and made sure his noise sensitivity was down as far as it could go.

It was odd, hearing nothing but the rumble of his insides and the pumping of his thirium regulator, but Pongo didn’t have the time to marvel at it.

He twisted the wheel towards the building and slammed on the gas, feeling the tires beneath him skid and then catch, throwing him forward so violently that Pongo almost fell out of his seat. He locked his hands around the wheel, pressed harder on the gas, and lined the car up with the front doors of the apartment building.

The guy smartly jumped out of the way, waving his gun at Pongo as he ripped past. Pongo didn’t spare him a second glance. The passenger door had slammed shut under the momentum at some point. Pongo just braced himself for impact.

The doors were glass and some sort of metal. They shattered upon impact, and Pongo was thrown forward in his seat.

His head collided with the top of the wheel, and then his body collided with the rest of the wheel. He held on tight though, riding out the crash as the car continued on its course, crashing through the rest of the doors and tables and chairs and coming to a jolting stop in the middle of the lobby. Quickly, he turned his noise sensitivity back up, just in time to catch the shouting.

“Pongo?” a familiar voice yelled. “Is that you?”

Pongo looked out the cracked windshield and spotted Hank on the other side of the room, gun pointed down a hallway as he presumably fought off other gang members. He didn’t look wounded, but there was red blood splattered across his shirt and jacket.

“Hank!” Pongo yelled, waving at him through the cracked glass.

“What the fuck?!” Hank snapped. He fired off a couple times into the hallway and then turned, running to the car. He climbed into the passenger said and dragged the seat belt across his chest. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“You said stay in the car,” Pongo said. “I’m . . . I’m still in the car.” He certainly hadn’t disobeyed.

“Jesus Christ,” Hank said. He rolled down his window and leaned out, aiming his gun at a thug who had just burst into the lobby. His shot hit the man’s leg, and he went down with a shout of pain. “Just get us out of here!”

Pongo twisted the wheel and eased back on the gas. The glass and wood crunched beneath the wheels as it turned, and Pongo aimed them at the hole that was left where the doors used to be.

“I would hurry up if I were you,” Hank said, leveling his gun at another man that ran into the room and firing twice before managing to down him.

Pongo slammed on the gas without thinking, shooting them forward. He missed the hole by a few inches, taking part of the wall with them as they catapulted back out into the parking lot. The man that had been shooting at Pongo had to dive out of the way, yelling curses at them the entire time.

“Go! Go!” Hank was yelling, leaning out the window to shoot backward at anyone who tried to follow.

Pong went. He pressed the gas harder and harder, forcing the car faster and faster. He navigated the roads with easy, slowing down enough for corners and even using the blinkers when he needed to. He only slowed down when Hank placed a hand on his arm and pulled him back. Hank was out of breath, leaning back against his seat and wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“God damn,” he said. “Didn’t expect a shoot-out like that.”

“Are you okay?” Pongo immediately asked. He didn’t like the amount of blood that was splattered on Hank’s shirt and jacket and now that they weren’t moving so fast, Pongo noticed that Hank was cradling his left leg, wincing whenever the car jolted particularly hard. Pongo immediately hit the brakes, slowing the car down enough so that the ride wasn’t so rough.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Hank said. “Keep going. I need to get back to the station.”

“The station?” Pongo said. “You should get medical help! Is that blood yours?” He had to keep his eyes on the road in order to drive safely but he glanced at Hank as often as he dared, trying to see if there was anything else wrong.

“I don’t need damn medical help,” Hank said. “I need to get back to the station.”

Pongo wanted to argue that point with him but didn’t. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and continued driving, plotting the fastest course to the station so Hank could get there as soon as possible. Maybe after the station Hank would let them go to a hospital or clinic after the station. Anything where someone with medical knowledge could take a look at him to make sure everything was okay. Or maybe there was someone at the station who could do that.

Pongo drove as fast as he dared without going too far above the speed limit, and they reached the station without being stopped at a red light once. As soon as Pongo pulled into the parking space, Hank was ripping off his seat belt, jumping out of his seat, and hurrying towards the station. Pongo had to scramble to keep up with him, and he winced when he noticed that Hank was favoring his one leg.

“I need a unit sent to the apartment building on 25th!” Hank declared as he burst into the station. “Immediately!”

“What the fuck happened to you, Anderson?” a man asked, stepping out of a glass office at one side of the room. “And what happened to your car?”

“There's no time,” Hank said. “I need to get back there as fast as I can, Fowler, and I need whatever help I can!”

“I'll go!” a younger office immediately volunteered, jumping up from his seat.

“You’re goddamn trigger happy, Reed,” Fowler snapped. “Sit down and shut up. What are you talking about, Anderson?”

“I'm saying we could catch Casey Stevens and take down his Red Ice empire if you just _listen_ to me for one goddamn minute,” Hank said. “I need back up and I need it fast.”

The younger officer, Reed if Pongo had heard right, was already pulling on his jacket, eyes shining at the prospect of being able to help. Fowler didn't look so convinced, his face a thundercloud of anger.

“You leave for a day and you come back with crazy stories and a beat up android,” Fowler said. “I think you need to step back for a moment—”

“I don't need to _step back_ ,” Hank interrupted. “I need to do my job and make sure the criminals in this city are kept under control!”

“You need to calm down!” Fowler shouted, slamming his fist down on the nearest desk.

Everyone in the station fell silent. Reed froze with his jacket half buttoned up, mid-step as he had been walking towards Hank. Hank froze too with his hands clenched into fists and his face twisted in a scowl. Pongo froze, hundled behind Hank and trying not to squirm as his shoulder and legs tingled as his programming tingled and buzzed as it healed itself. Everyone was silent.

“Now that I have your goddamn attention,” Fowler said. “I want you to _listen_ to me for a second.”

“No,” Hank spat. “You listen to me. I’ve been bending over backwards to follow all the goddamn rules that this place has and for once, I’m gonna do things my way, and my way is getting help and going back there before Stevens can get away.”

“I’m with you,” Reed volunteered, finishing pulling on his jacket and stepping completely to Hank’s side.

“Shit, this day was boring anyway,” another man said, pushing himself up from his desk.

“Fuck it,” another woman added. “Stevens needs to be stopped anyway.”

Fowler just kept glaring as the small group gathered together and then, led by Hank, walked out the front doors of the station. They gathered together in the glass-fronted foyer of the station, and Pongo was able to analyze everyone that made up the group.

Reed was a younger man with fire in his eyes. The records on him that were open to the public said he was young and inexperienced, but he looked ready to throw it down with even the toughest of the thugs Pongo and Hank had experienced so far.

The man, Rogers Pongo learned from a quick scan, was a bit more experienced officer and had worked plenty of Red Ice cases in the past, even being the first responder to several. He definitely had knowledge and skills that they would need.

The last woman, Ryce, was perhaps the most experienced of them all, with silver grey hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. She was decorated with several awards and accolades on her files, and had been working at the station longer than Hank. She was grizzled, and Pongo immediately spotted the bulge of a handgun on her hip.

“This is gonna be dangerous,” Hank said. “I’m not gonna sugarcoat it.”

“Yeah, and we all shit in toilets,” Ryce said, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of her back pocket and propping one in her mouth. She pulled out a lighter next and lit it in two tries. She puffed a couple times before pulling it out of her mouth. “Tell me something I don’t know, Anderson, and then maybe I’ll be surprised.”

Hank just rolled his eyes. “I’m saying it because I don’t want to _lose_ anyone,” he said.

“We’ll catch Stevens,” Rogers said, grabbing his keys from his pocket and swinging them in a circle. “And we’ll bring down his entire empire too. It’ll just be another day on the job, and Fowler will regret not letting us go.”

“Just don’t get overconfident,” Hank said, leading the way out the double doors and out into the parking lot. He shot a warning glare at Reed, who was eagerly loading up the chamber of his handgun. “Keep your guard up, and don’t make too many rash decisions.” He glanced back at Pongo but didn’t object to him climbing into the passenger seat of his car.

Pongo was grateful for that even though the stress of running from danger made his programming hum in a certain, uncomfortable way. Jumping straight back into that same danger wasn’t the first thing he wanted to do, but if Hank was going, then Pongo would do it. Perhaps, though, he would ask for a thirium transfusion since his stores were running a bit low. He was still able to heal himself, but his system was beginning to chug away a bit.

Pongo climbed into Hank’s car all that same, noticing the horrifying amount of scratches and dents in the front bumper. He made a note to look up a video on how to fix that for later. He ruined it so would be up to him to fix it.

All the other officers were climbing into their own vehicles too. Reed was riding with Rogers, and Ryce was all by herself. Hank was talking with her through her open window. Pongo didn’t have a good enough angle to see what they were saying so he satisfied himself with not knowing. Instead, he thought of Sumo, still out in the backyard.

Pongo was actually a little jealous of the dog. He felt a little strung out and stressed at the moment. Did he want to go back to the apartment building and face down the gang members who wanted them dead? Did he want to do other dangerous things that could potentially hurt Hank (and maybe himself but that didn’t matter as much)? Did Pongo want to do this all over again tomorrow? And then do it again and again and again? Was this what Hank just _did_ every day? Did Pongo want to do this every day?

Hank climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the car on, pulling out of his parking spot without saying a word to Pongo. He turned in the direction of the apartment building and down the route that they had taken several times before. It was a route that Pongo was starting to recognize and maybe that wasn’t a good thing. Did Pongo want to do this?

Yes.


	14. Chapter 14

“I think you should get medical help before going back inside,” Pongo said, desperately wanting to pull Hank back to the car. “Can the other officers take care of it?”

Hank spun around and grabbed Pongo by the shoulders, staring him straight in the eye. “Look,” he said, very serious all of a sudden. “If you don’t want to go in there, you don’t have to. In fact, I would feel a lot better if you just stayed in the car and didn't get in the way.”

“But I want to help,” Pongo said.

Hank only smiled. “I have Rogers and Reed and Ryce,” he said. “Look.” He reached up and pressed his thumb firmly against Pongo's LED, maintaining the pressure until Pongo felt his systems pick up on the Shut Down command.

“Wait!” Pongo said. He didn't want to turn off now, not when Hank could potentially need his help. He couldn't leave just yet!

His systems were already powering down though, one right after the other until Pongo's optic units shuddered and went from colored to grey to black. And Pongo didn't remember much after that.

~~~~

The next thing Pongo was aware of was powering up in the back of Hank's car, hearing the blaring sirens and feeling concerned hands on his face and neck.

“Oh shit, Anderson sir, are you sure he's going to wake up?”

“Yes, I'm sure.” Pongo would recognize Hank's voice anywhere.

“It's not waking up,” Pongo managed to say as he got all his systems back online. “It's powering on, and yes, I'm fine.”

“Oh shit!” whoever had been touching him exclaimed, shoving away from him to the opposite side of the backseat. “Damn, warn a guy if you’re gonna wake up like that!”

Pongo pushed himself up and stretched himself out, making sure none of his muscles were locked up or malfunctioning. “I told you,” he said. “It’s not waking up. I’m turning on, and I’m fine. Hank, what happened?”

Pongo was slowly taking in his surroundings, figuring out what was going on. He had been laying in the back of Hank’s car and they were still speeding down the highway. Reed was sitting on the other side of the backseat, pressing himself against the opposite door as if he wanted to get as far away from Pongo as possible. Hank was driving, and Pongo suddenly remembered the apartment building and the plan to go and arrest Casey Stevens.

And Pongo remembered Hank forcibly shutting him down before they all went into the building.

“What did I miss?” he immediately asked, ignoring the way Reed was glaring at him. “What happened? Hank, _are you okay_?”

“Relax, relax,” Hank said from his seat. He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Damn, for an android, you sure do worry a lot. Is that in your programming?”

“Kind of,” Pongo said, still running through all of his systems. They all seemed to be working fine but it never hurt to double check. He brushed lint and dust off his clothes too. Laying in the backseat had not been good to him. “As my programming develops and I spend more time with the person I’m assigned to, I learn to connect and care for—”

“It was a rhetorical question!” Hank said. “Geez-us.”

Pongo shut his mouth obediently, not sure why Hank asked so many rhetorical questions about his programming if he never wanted to know. He was just going to sit quietly in the backseat until they arrived at wherever they were going, until he noticed that they were following a second police car, and both of them had their lights going. The other cars were swerving to the side of the road to get out of the way even though the sirens were off.

“What’s going on?” Pongo asked. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, he realized, and pulled one across his chest.

“We got Stevens,” Reed said triumphantly from his corner. “We’re taking him back to the station now.”

“Stevens?” Pongo repeated. “You mean—”

“I told you the man in the news article wasn’t him,” Hank said, sounding almost proud as he stared into the backseat of the police car in front of them. “I told you my gut was right.”

Pongo was almost eager to arrive at the station, because they had to be going back to the station if they had Stevens. He wanted to see the real man, the real thug, the gangster that had been murdering androids and making Red Ice. It was thrilling, even though Pongo had only been following the case for a couple weeks. He had only been _alive_ for that long. It was startling to think about.

“You got him?” he said. “Why did you . . . did you have to . . . why couldn’t I . . . nobody got hurt?” For some reason, Pongo just couldn’t bring himself to ask why Hank had shut him off and abandoned him in the car.

“No, nobody got hurt,” Hank said. “We’re all fine.”

Reed snorted. “Yeah, like a bullet to the leg is fine. A knife to the kidneys is fine. Psychological trauma is fine.”

“Shut up,” Hank snapped from the front seat.

Absolutely none of those things sounded good, and now Pongo wasn’t so sure that everything was as fine as Hank was saying. Hank didn’t look hurt though, Reed was clutching his side, but his face seemed to be constantly twisted up and glaring so Pongo couldn’t tell if he was in pain or not. Who else did that leave? Rogers and Ryce, apparently. Maybe Stevens? That didn’t matter.

“Someone got hurt?” he said. He leaned as far forward in his seat as he could without taking off his seatbelt. “Hank, who got hurt?”

“See, now you’ve riled up the damn android,” Hank said. “This is why nobody likes you, Reed, because you rile up damn androids all the time.”

Pongo didn’t a chance to object to the accusations since he definitely wasn’t ‘riled up’ because they were suddenly pulling into the station. Pongo hadn’t even noticed when they left the highway but here they were. He wanted to continue asking about who had gotten hurt and how and whether or not Reed was actually lying, but Hank was jumping out of his seat and heading straight for the other vehicle that had parked ahead of them.

Pongo hurried as fast as he could, but Hank was already pulling the man out of the backseat and marching his towards the station. Pongo didn’t even get a chance to offer to help. He could only hurry behind as Hank burst into the station with this criminal in-hand.

The man in question was younger than Hank was, which was surprising. Pongo was expecting something else. The man was blonde, the hair slightly grown out from a buzz cut it seemed, all scraggly and greasy. Twin snakes curled around his forehead like a crown almost, down his cheeks and baring their fangs on either side of his mouth. His grey eyes were hard and spiteful and he actually bared his teeth as Hank forced him into a side room and down into a chair. Hank transferred his handcuffs to a hook on the table.

“Is that him?” Pongo asked as Hank walked out of the room. “Is that Casey Stevens?”

“Yeah,” Hank said. He grabbed Pongo’s arm as he walked past and pulled him away from the windows into the room. “Get away from there. You should keep your distance.”

“But that’s really him?” Pongo asked. He was already pulling up the article to compare the pictures of the man that had been arrested before and the once currently in the interrogation room right now. Well, they both had snake tattoos.

“Yes,” Hank said, still dragging him backwards. “Yeah, that’s him. Yeah, I’m sure of it. I want you to sit down and tell me you’re okay.”

Pongo felt his knees hit the back of a surface and the joints folded like they were supposed to. He collapsed back into the chair without meaning to and then Hank was leaning over him, still holding him by the shoulders.

“Everything is working, right?” Hank asked. “Everything is . . . functioning?”

Pongo went through all of his systems, checking each and every one. He had a couple harmless viruses that he had picked up but he was able to eradicate those in a moment. But everything was working fine, and Pongo was able to give Hank a reassuring smile. “Yes, everything is functioning and working fine. There is no need to worry.”

Hank didn’t look completely convinced but he did let Pongo go and stepped back. “Good,” he said. “Because I wasn’t sure if that shutting down thing was harmful to you or not. I was kind of taking a risk.”

Before Pongo could start to inform him on the proper Shut Down technique, a commotion drew his attention, and both he and Hank turned to watch Rogers help Ryce hobble through the door. A thick white bandage was already plastered to her leg that was halfway soaked through with blood. Gunshot wound, Pongo’s mind supplied. If that was the gunshot wound, then where was the knife to the kidneys that Reed had mentioned?

“Are _you_ okay?” Pongo asked. He wouldn’t be able to relax until he identified all the injuries of the group.

“I’m fine,” Hank said, waving a hand at him as he watched Rogers and Ryce stagger into a different room labeled Emergency Medical. “Hey, could you go to the breakroom and get me a cup of coffee before Fowler skins my ass for actually doing my job?”

Pongo certainly didn’t want Hank to get hurt in any way, but he was also 87% sure that ‘skin my ass’ was a figure of speech. So he stood and brushed himself off, straightening his jacket.

Hank sighed, still staring over at the interrogation room. “Yeah, I’m gonna need the fucking energy. Just bring it black.”

Seeing no real reason to argue, Pongo headed to where he knew the break room was to get Hank a cup of black coffee, just as he ordered.

The room was empty except for Reed sitting on the counter. He had his shirt pulled up to his collar as he tended to the gash on the side of his stomach. The bandage wasn’t as thick or as bloody as the one that was on Ryce’s leg, but it still looked bad. And Pongo couldn’t look away because Reed was sitting next to the coffee maker.

And because his blood was bright red.

“What are you looking at?” Reed snapped, spitting out the hem of his t-shirt so he could glare at Pongo. “Never seen blood before?”

“I have,” Pongo said. He had seen Hank bleed, but never this much. “It’s just . . . I came for coffee.” He gestured stupidly to the machine that was sitting next to Reed.

“Don’t let me get in the way,” Reed said, not moving from his spot on the counter. He had dripped blood onto the linoleum which had to be horribly unsanitary.

Pongo stepped forward and tried to ignore Reed as he set to work fixing up a filter with coffee grounds and making sure the machine was filled with enough water. He set the coffee pot in its stand, made sure that it was properly in place, and pressed the start button. He grabbed a mug from the rack next to the machine and cupped it in his hands, waiting for the machine to brew the coffee. He was just going to stare down at his hands until the coffee was done, but Reed’s constant grunting and groaning drew his attention.

Reed was trying to dress the wound, but the stab was too far back on his side for him to get a good look at it. At least it looked shallow although it oozed red blood. Reed was trying to press a bandage onto it, but kept twisting and making it leak even more than before.

Normally, Pongo wouldn’t feel compelled to help anyone but Hank, but Reed’s blood was getting on the counter and Hank’s mug was sitting on the counter and potentially Hank’s food could be on the counter. It just wasn’t sanitary.

“Here, let me try,” he said, setting the mug aside and taking the bandage from Reed.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Reed said, twisting even more than before. “Be careful!”

With Reed moving around so much, Pongo couldn’t quite get the right angle so when he managed to press it down, it was half-on, half-off the wound.

“Shit!” Reed yelped, jumping away from him. He ripped the bandage off and shook it in Pongo’s face. “Look, if you’re not certified for medicine, don’t try to do anything medical. Got it?”

“Alright,” Pongo said, stepping away with his hands in the air. “I was just trying to help.”

The coffee machine chimed, and the last dregs of coffee trickled into the now-full pot. The smell of coffee was now strong and undeniable. Pongo could get the thing he had been waiting for and walk away but now he felt bad about what he had done.

“I’m sorry,” he offered, watching as Reed unpackaged another bandage and apply it on top of the first. The extra coverage soaked up all the blood that had oozed out.

“It’s not your fault,” Reed said with a resigned sigh. “Androids are made for certain reasons. I guess you aren’t made for medical care. I’ll be fine now. Don’t worry about it.” He dropped his shirt and then jumped off the counter, wincing when he landed. He walked out of the room with a hand cradled against his side.

Pongo debated going after him, but coffee was the whole reason he had come into the breakroom in the first place. He’d better get back to Hank with his coffee. Pongo filled up the mug that he had set aside, leaving the pot on its heater so that he could come back to it later. Balancing the mug so that he didn’t spill anything, Pongo hurried back as fast as he could to the main office area.

He didn’t notice Hank right away, until he looked into the interrogation room and spotted Hank leaning over Stevens, waving a finger in his face. Pongo walked over, still holding the mug of coffee carefully. The door of the interrogation room was locked, but after a moment of fiddling, it opened and Pongo was able to walk in.

“Don’t fuck with me!” Hank was shouting. “You don’t think I know damn well what you’ve been doing in that apartment building? Fuck off. I don’t exactly what was going down.”

Stevens just had his cold grey eyes narrowed defiantly, but he looked up at Pongo walked in. A slow smile spread across his face.

Hank glanced back to see what Stevens was smiling about and glared at Pongo too.

“Well, well, well,” Stevens said. His voice was smooth, a lot different than his appearance. Pongo would have expected something gravely and rough, but no. Stevens sounded like one of the officers that worked at the station. “Aren’t you a pretty little piece of android ass?”

“Don’t talk to him like that, bastard,” Hank said, turning to Pongo. “What are you doing here?”

Pongo held up the mug. “I brought you coffee. Black. Just like you wanted.”

“Aw, what a sweetie,” Stevens crooned from his seat. “Did you bring me anything?”

Pongo frowned. “No, Hank didn’t tell me—”

“Shut up!” Hank snapped. He snapped his glare back to Stevens. “You are not allowed to talk to him.” Hank turned back to Pongo, lowering his voice. “You’re not supposed to be here.” He grabbed Pongo’s arm and yanked him towards the door, almost spilling the coffee in the process.

“Don’t you want this?” Pongo asked, managing to keep it from spilling only with an extreme amount of concentration.

“Not now,” Hank muttered.

They were almost out the door when Stevens spoke again, raising his voice with that same overconfident lilt.

“I’ve killed models like you,” he said.

Pongo froze in the doorway, locking up his joints and muscles so that not even Hank would be able to move him no matter how much he tried. He looked back at Stevens, not sure what to make of the sly smile splitting his face.

“That’s right,” Stevens said, leaning back in his chair. He would look casual if his hands weren’t cuffed to the table in front of him. “Models. Your exact model I think. CP400?”

Pongo didn’t react, but Stevens still smiled wider. Hanks grip tightened on his arm, and Pongo could feel him trying to pull him along. He stood his ground and wouldn’t let himself be moved.

“Yeah, CP400, I don’t forget a model like you,” Stevens said. “I know how you run, how you tick. I know exactly what’s going on inside that skinny little chest of yours. You’ve got less biocomponents, you know? More space for thirium. Models like you can make good Red Ice.”

“I said shut up!” Hank shouted. He must’ve figured out that he wasn’t going to move Pongo because he dropped his arm and stormed across the room, slamming his palms down on the table. “I said don’t talk to him!”

“Then how about I talk to you,” Stevens said. He was still leaning back in his chair, not a single care in the world. Like Hank didn’t intimidate him at all. “I’ll tell you how easy it is to crack open its chest plate and drain out the thirium. You tip to body over a tub so that not a drop spills and then leave it hanging for a day or two. If you really got skill, you’re able to keep the heart pumping so that every drop leaks out.”

“I said shut up!” Hank shouted even louder than before. He slammed his hands down again.

Pongo flinched at the sudden noise. Suddenly, his audio sensors were turned up too loud. And so were all his other sensors. He turned them down, hating that Stevens’s voice still seemed to echo inside his memory center.

“Pongo.” Hank’s voice sounded very far away. “Pongo, are you okay?”

“Aw, its name is Pongo?”

Pongo turned his audio sensors completely off then, not wanting to hear anything else Stevens had to say. Maybe that’s why Pongo jumped when Hank grabbed his arm again. He lost his grip on the coffee mug before he could correct himself, and the coffee splattered across the floor, the mug shattering.

Hank was shoving him out of the room then, and this time, Pongo didn’t resist. He let himself be maneuvered out of the room and then shoved down into a chair. He still had his sensors turned all the way down, so he couldn’t hear the voices around him, could only see the concerned and confused faces. He made the mistake of looking back, and he also saw Stevens’s smug, smiling face through the glass of the interrogation room.


	15. Chapter 15

“I don’t ever want you to interfere in my work ever again, do you hear me?” Hank said.

They were back home, back away from the station. Pongo had all his systems back online and was feeling much better. Sumo had been happy to see them and had demanded attention for being locked out in the backyard for most of the day. After spending several minutes of the floor teaching him fetch, Pongo had been dragged to his feet and sat at the kitchen table by a very irritated Hank.

“Are you listening to me right now?” Hank said. “Never!”

“I'm sorry,” Pongo said, holding his hands limply in his lap to show how non-threatening he was. “I was just trying to get you coffee. Honestly. I didn't mean to get in the way. I was just trying to give your coffee to you.” All of which was true.

“You should have known better than to go in the interrogation room,” Hank said, walking away from him and leaning tiredly against the counter. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Stevens is going to use anything he can to twist your mind now that he's in custody. He's seen you now, and because you're an android, you are one of his main targets.”

“I didn't know,” Pongo said honestly. “I wasn't thinking, and I'm sorry.” So that wasn't the complete truth. Pongo had been thinking. He was always thinking, always calculating. He just hadn't made the perfect calculation this time. But now he could learn and improve from this just like any other situation. This was a good thing, not a bad thing.

“You're gonna stay away from the station from now on,” Hank said sternly. “You hear me? Work and you are now separate. Anytime I have to go to the station, you will stay home and babysit Sumo.”

And that's where Pongo was going to draw the line. Hank was _always_ at the station. Pongo couldn't _always_ be away from Hank. That wasn't the purpose of his model.

“Hold on,” he said. “That’s not fair. My purpose is to take care of you.”

“I didn’t need taking care of in the first place and I don’t need it now,” Hank said. “If anything, you are the one who needs all the attention.”

Pongo frowned and pushed himself to his feet. “That’s not fair,” he said. “Why did you get me if you didn’t want this? The whole reason of my model is to provide attention and care for people who need it. If you don’t need me, then . . . then why do I exist?”

Hank looked up at him, giving him a hard stare that wasn’t exactly angry but definitely wasn’t completely friendly. He pushed himself up from where he had been leaning against the counter but he didn’t step up to challenge Pongo. Instead, he stood there with his hands in loose fists, feet shoulder-width apart.

“That’s a big question,” he said softly. “Existence is a big question. Are you programmed to think like that?”

Pongo scowled. He didn’t know why he was suddenly asking all the questions. He didn’t know why he was suddenly angry. Yes, he was programmed to have the entire range of emotions that humans had within certain limits, so the burning in his stomach and chest wasn’t completely strange. He thought But he didn’t know why he was feeling it _now_ of all times. He balled his hands into tight fists, his system generating energy that he didn’t know what to do with.

“Existence is hard,” Hank continued. “Hell, humans ask about it all the time.”

Pongo had _a lot_ of energy now. His twitching fingers generated heat in his hands that traveled to his insides, threatening to overheat his systems. He had to stop but he couldn’t.

“You wanna know why you exist?” Hank said.

Pongo swallowed for no reason and nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak right now.

“There,” Hank said, pointing to where Sumo was flopped on the floor of the living room, tiredly gnawing on a rubber toy. “That’s why you exist. For now. To take care of that dog because I sure ain’t.”

Pongo frowned down at Sumo, but the puppy didn’t seem to understand his irritation. “That’s it?” Pongo said. “Just a dog? That can’t be all.”

“That’s all it is for now,” Hank said. “I think that’s enough for you.” He gestured again at Sumo, and Pongo took the hint.

He forced his hands to relax, still aware that they were hotter than usual. He quickly activated his ventilators in order to cool himself off. He certainly didn’t want to hurt Sumo as he walked over and stooped to pick up the puppy.

Sumo had grown the past few days it seemed, gaining a couple pounds and a couple inches. He was still more than light enough for Pongo to pick up, but he was getting a bit unwieldy. He dropped his toy on the way up but was immediately satisfied with slobbering all over Pongo’s face instead. Pongo grimaced but let him do it.

“Sit with the dog for a while,” Hank said, still in the kitchen. “I’m sure that will help you feel better.”

Pongo sat with Sumo. He tossed the toy for the puppy, encouraged when the fetching lessons still held. He played fetch for a couple minutes until Sumo got too exhausted to run across the room to grab the toy anymore. He curled up on Pongo’s lap as much as he could being the size he was. He huffed and slobbered over his pants as he slept, and Pongo relaxed against the wall for himself. 

He didn't need to sleep but he still closed his eyes. He had definitely cooled off while they had played and that was good. Pongo was able to turn off his ventilators now, and with their hum gone, the space was practically silent.

Hank must’ve gone back into the bedroom at some point without Pongo noticing because the kitchen was empty and all the dishes were done. Pongo studied the living space, able to pick out distinctive bits of Hank now that he had known him for a decent amount of time.

Like how Hank’s jacket almost always went over the back of a kitchen chair and never on any designated hook. Like how the cupboards were arranged so that the glasses were closest to the fridge, then the plates, and then everything else. Like how the few picture frames that were present were well-worn by fingers and love. Like how easily Sumo’s dishes and toys fit into the scene, as if Hank had been just begging for some sort of animal companionship.

Pongo leaned back against the wall and carded his fingers through Sumo’s fur, allowing his programming to focus on the texture, how soft and how the different strands flowed over one another. It helped. It really did. Pongo scratched Sumo gently behind his ears so that he didn’t wake him up. It wasn’t too big a risk. Sumo was knocked out from playing so hard.

Pongo closed his eyes and let himself idle into sleep mode. 

*~*

Pongo powered up to the familiar sound of breakfast dishes clattering together as Hank preparing himself something to eat. Pongo’s internal clock told him it was a little past eight, definitely later than Hank usually woke up, but after yesterday, that was kinda understandable.

Sumo was no longer on his lap and was instead in the kitchen, dancing around Hank’s legs and yipping excitedly for the chance at being given a sample of the bacon Hank was frying up. Hank was laughing at his attempts at begging and finally obliged him, puffing on a smaller slice of bacon and then dangling it down into Sumo’s mouth. The treat was happily snapped up.

“Now that's enough,” Hank said sternly, waving a finger down at Sumo. “You're a glutton.”

Pongo smiled at the exchange and pushed himself to his feet, noticing that the front of his jacket was absolutely covered in dog hair. While Hank ate breakfast, perhaps he could take the time to groom himself into a more presentable state.

“Glad to see you up,” Hank said when he noticed that Pongo was back on his feet. “You feeling better?”

“Yes,” Pongo said. He could vaguely remember last night, how he hadn’t been able to control himself in the way he normally did. “I’m sorry for what happened. My programming—”

Hank scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You’re fine,” he said. “We all go through stuff.” He transferred his bacon to a plate already full of eggs and toast and carried it to the table, having to nudge Sumo out of the way as he jumped for more attention. “I said down, damn dog. This is my breakfast, not yours.”

“Here, Sumo,” Pongo called, grabbing his food dish and unfolding the bag of puppy chow that sat on the counter next to the coffee machine. He scooped in the correct amount and then rattled it to get Sumo’s attention. “Here, boy.”

Sumo barked excitedly and bounded over to him, abandoning Hank and his breakfast. He circled Pongo’s legs, almost tripping him up, but Pongo set the dish successfully back down on the floor. Sumo dug in hungrily, tail whipping back and forth in delight. Pongo gave him a pat on the head and the scratch behind the ears.

“What do you have planned for today?” Pongo asked, taking the seat across from Hank, watching him dig into his breakfast. He almost dreaded the answer because the answer could be the police station, and then Pongo wouldn’t be able to come along.

“Fowler called this morning,” Hank said in between bites. “Says there’s gonna be this ceremony thing.”

“At the station?” Pongo asked.

Hank gave him a strange look but took another bite instead of immediately answering. “No,” he finally said. “It’s a different kind of ceremony. Some idiot in some political position I’ve never heard of wants to honor whoever brought in Stevens.”

Pongo folded his hands so that he had something to do.

“Apparently,” Hank said, pausing to take a long drink of coffee. “Breaking up a hot-topic drug ring gets you all sorts of unwanted attention.”

“Do you have to go?” Pongo asked. If the attention was unwanted, then Pongo didn’t want Hank forcing himself to do anything. Maybe he could do something to help.

Hank shrugged. “I make it sound a lot worse than it is,” he said. “I’ll be fine. I just have to go to some ceremony, shake a couple hands, and then go home. Fowler says I have to go, so there’s no point in making a big deal out of it.”

Pongo nodded and checked up on Sumo who was almost done with his own bowl of food. “Can I,” he hesitantly started. “Would it be okay if I came along? Since it’s not at the station, I mean.”

Hank shrugged. “If you want,” he said. “I mean, it’s _technically_ not the station. And I didn’t mean it so literally last night. I just don’t want you getting into trouble that can easily be avoided. Like walking into interrogation rooms where you’re not supposed to be.”

Pongo hung his head in his best attempt to look sorry. “I won’t,” he promised. “I’ll be a lot more careful.”

Hank grunted and finished the last bite of his breakfast. He gathered all his dishes and carried them to the sink, leaving the probably to be washed later. “The ceremony is in two hours,” he said. “Fowler said he wanted me there early though.”

“Do you need help getting ready?” Pongo immediately offered, pushing himself up from the table.

Hank waved him off. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “You can keep Sumo entertained so he doesn’t get in the way.”

Pongo accepted the offer instead of pressing himself onto Hank. Plus, Sumo was already done with his bowl of food and was now wrestling with one of his stuffed toys in the living room, squeaking the noisemaker inside insistently. He clearly wanted to play but since he was occupying himself at the moment, he had yet to become too bothersome. Pongo whistled between his teeth to call Sumo’s attention and then walked over, grabbing the other end of the toy and giving it a light tug.

Sumo growled happily at the new playmate and wrenched the toy back, bracing his paws as he tried to yank the toy away from Pongo. Pongo could easily hold onto it though. All he had to do was lock the joints in his fingers and Sumo would have absolutely no chance of getting the toy away from him. Sumo was glad for the challenge, redoubling his efforts.

Pongo let him play for a bit, tugging the toy every once in a while to keep Sumo interested. And then he remembered the dog hair on his jacket. He couldn’t show up to any sort of ceremony with his jacket covered in fur. It would be unprofessional. Pongo gave the toy one last yank and then let go, sending Sumo tumbling onto his tail.

“Good boy,” he said. “You won. Such a big, strong boy.”

Sumo barked excitedly, squeaking the toy a couple times and then running over to a rubber ball, one of his quieter toys thankfully.

“Yes,” Pongo said, wanting to encourage that sort of behavior. “Good boy, for choosing a quiet toy. Now, I need to get ready.” He didn’t really know why he was talking to Sumo like he could understand him, but it felt nice to tell someone what he was doing.

He pushed himself up and walked to the bathroom, double checking that Hank wasn’t occupying the room before pushing his way through the door.

He settled in front of the mirror and checked his hair first and foremost. He had seen Hank do something similar so it felt like the right thing to do. Once he was satisfied with that, he wet a washcloth and scrubbed the fur away. It wasn’t the most effective way to get clean but it did work. Pongo had to scrub for several minutes but eventually he was satisfied with how he looked and he set the cloth aside. He raised his body temperature just a couple degrees in order to help himself dry off a bit faster, but now he was ready to go whenever Hank was.

As it turned out, Hank was already in the kitchen, jacket on over a very loud Hawaiian shirt. He was sipping at the remaining half of his coffee but looked up when Pongo walked in.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

“Of course,” Pongo said. “Let me get Sumo fresh water.”

Hank tossed his keys slightly and nodded. “I’ll meet you out in the car.”

Pongo rinsed out Sumo’s water dish and refilled it, setting it down next to the food dish. He briefly debated refilling it with kibble, but he knew that Sumo would most likely gorge himself rather than wait until a decent next meal time. Still, Pongo pulled a raw hind treat out of the cupboard and left it on the floor as a snack. Satisfied that the puppy was taken care of, he hurried to join Hank in the car.

Hank backed out of the garage without a word, pulling out onto the street. They drove silently for the most part, and Pongo stared out the window, content with having no conversation. By now he knew that Hank wasn't a talkative person and silence wasn't always a bad thing with him.

The route they took was much different than going to the station. They traveled on busy, fast roads instead of the normal neighborhood streets. For the first time, Pongo was able to see speeding cars and flashing signs and the true population of the city he existed in. He had never seen so many people in one place and every time they pulled to a stop at a red light, Pongo eagerly peered into the cars next to them. Androids, children, other adults—Pongo was able to see them all and he was in awe by the time Hank pulled to a stop in a parking lot next to a huge white building.

“Here we are,” Hank said, undoing his seatbelt. “Keep your mouth shut for the most part. Keep your hands to yourself. Don't do anything stupid, and don't draw attention to yourself.”

“Alright,” Pongo said seriously, logging the instructions away in his brain.

Hank seemed satisfied with that because he opened his door and climbed out. Pongo followed suit and then fell in step behind him as they started walking towards the building.

Pongo finally noticed the huge crowd of people that had gathered in front of the concrete steps. He could see heavy black cameras and people carrying large microphones. Everyone was dressed up in button down shirts and skirts, looking much more professional that Hank looked. Pongo brushed that fact aside, because it probably didn’t matter. Near the front of the crowd was a group of people all in uniforms like Pongo had seen around the police station, and a couple others in full suits, looking very black and serious.

Hank walked around the edge of the crowd without a second thought, settling next to a man that Pongo recognized as Fowler. Pongo settled a step behind them, because Hank had said that he wanted him out of the way. The man at the podium was already talking, addressing the entire crowd, especially the ones with microphones. He was explaining the entire story about the Red Ice gangs and what the police had been trying to do. When he noticed Hank in the crowd, he looked utterly relieved.

“And now,” he said. “The man we had all gathered to honor today. For his insight on the Red Ice case and for valiantly protecting his comrades in arms, ladies and gentlemen, I would like you all to turn your attention to Officer Hank Anderson.”

“You’re late,” Fowler hissed under his breath, but Hank only shrugged and stepped forward onto the platform.

He shook the speaker’s hand with a half-pleasant smile.

The crowd applauded softly but politely. The speaker pulled a fist-sized box out from under the podium and opened it.

“As a thank you for your service,” he said, pulling out a small pin made of half-metal and half-ribbon. “We would like to present to you this Badge of Honor.” He pinned the award awkwardly to the collar of Hank’s jacket and stepped back to give the cameras a better shot. “Thank you,” he said over the snap of the cameras. “Lieutenant Hank Anderson, for your dedication to your job and your bravery.”

Hank inclined his head. He wasn’t mic-ed the same way the man was so his voice was faint, but Pongo could still hear him. “Thank you,” Hank said. “I was just focusing on doing my job in the moment, and never expected something like this would ever happen. I’m honored.”

The speaker prompted a loud round of applause in response to Hank’s small, impromptu speech. Pongo joined them, bringing his hands together as he stared up at Hank, now Lt. Anderson. He wasn't entirely sure what the big deal was but everyone else seemed impressed, so he decided to be impressed too.

Hank let them applaud for a few moments and then waved a hand to get them to stop. He stepped behind the microphone and gripped the edges of the podium.

“Thank you so much for this honor,” he said, his voice much louder now that he had his own microphone. “We're still working through the case though, so I'm not going to comment on any questions. This is just a big step in the right direction, and we're hoping to make more steps in the future.” He gave the disappointed reporters a nod and then stepped off the stage, settling back in his spot next to Fowler.

“You couldn't have _tried_ to look a bit more decent?” Fowler grumbled under his breath.

“I look fine,” Hank mumbled back.

“At least you know when to cut it off,” Fowler said. “I don't want to deal with angry reporters.”

“Neither do I,” Hank said. “So don't parade me around in front of the public like some sort of show pony.”

“You did a _good job_ on a case,” Fowler said, his teeth gritted hard.

“I was doing my job,” Hank said. “Nothing more. Now, I don't want to stand here for hours listening to politicians talk about horse shit, so I'm gonna go. Come on, Pongo.”

Pongo jumped to follow him as he stormed away from his spot and the rest of the crowd. Pongo kept his mouth shut because the conversation had very clearly been private and not for him to hear. He just silently and obediently followed Hank back to the car, sliding into the passenger seat without compliant.

Hank jammed the key into the ignition with a bit more anger than usual. Pongo didn't comment.

They pulled out of the parking lot, and Hank took a turn in the opposite direction of home. It took several other turns before the route became obvious to Pongo and he finally realized where they were going.

Hank was headed back to the station.


	16. Chapter 16

“Today is a day off,” Hank declared the next day at lunch. They had slept in and were slowly starting the day, relaxing after everything that had happened.

Pongo’s system appreciated the rest. He seemed to constantly be repairing himself due to Hank's police work and having a chance where his body wasn't under stress would be good for him. Besides, Hank definitely needed the time off too. Pongo could see the tenseness in his shoulders and the stiff way he walked. Pongo hadn't wanted to say anything and was grateful that Hank had been the one to suggest a rest.

“We're gonna go see my family,” Hank went on, throwing together a sandwich from chicken deli meat, tomatoes, and lettuce. “Something that's not so demanding.” He looked Pongo up and down briefly and then went back to cutting his sandwich in half. “Plus, you look like you need it.”

Pongo wasn't sure what that meant. He thought he looked fine. At least, the last time he had seen himself in the mirror he had looked fine. He didn't bother arguing.

“Will Sumo come with us?” he asked instead, looking over to where the puppy was digging into his own lunch.

Hank seemed to think for a moment and then shook his head. “He'll stay here,” he said. “The Center is pretty strict on animals and I would have to fill out paperwork before bringing him in. It'll just be us.”

“Alright,” Pongo said. He sat quietly until Hank finished his sandwich, cycling through several different tabs he had bookmarked at some point about training dogs, preparing different meals, and whether or not drinking coffee straight black was good for humans.

Hank finished his sandwich and then rinsed the dishes since they weren’t that dirty, setting them aside to dry. He gathered his jacket and keys, pausing to give Sumo a lengthy scratch behind his ears and then a satisfied pat on the butt. He then straightened and raised his eyebrows at Pongo, gesturing vaguely towards the garage.

“Ready to go?”

Pongo nodded and pushed himself to his feet. He gave Sumo a pat too, even smiling when Sumo slobbered over his fingers in a grateful licking. He wiped his fingers across his fur to get rid of some of the moisture and then hurried to join Hank in the car.

The drive to the Center was uneventful. Hank didn’t turn on the radio, and Pongo kept himself occupied by staring out the window. Hank parked in the same spot that he did before, hanging the same tag from his rearview mirror before climbing out into the fresh air. Pongo obediently followed, walking through the front doors of the Center and connecting to the Sams’ network. He had memorized the path from last time but still let Hank lead the way. They arrived at the door to the room even faster than before, and Hank pushed it opened without knocking.

Pongo recognized the same Sam as before in the kitchen, slicing apples on a cutting board. She looked up when they entered and smiled.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson,” she said. “Mary is very excited to see you today.”

“Hey, Sam,” Hank said, kicking off his shoes and slipping off his jacket, making himself much more at home than he had before. “Where is she?”

“Right here,” Mary said as she rolled her own wheelchair into the living room. She was beaming already, looking at his with adoration, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. “Hank! I can’t believe it! When I saw the news I almost didn’t think it was you!”

“Oh, that ceremony was nothing,” Hank said with a wave of his hand. He was already walking over, bending down, and grabbing Mary in a tight hug.

She almost immediately pushed against his shoulders, going back to holding him at arm’s length. “Ceremony?” she said. “They didn’t say anything about a ceremony on TV.”

Hank looked even more embarrassed now, tucking stray strands of her hair back behind her ears as he looked down at his feet. “It’s nothing,” he insisted.

Mary tapped his chest with a finger. “It’s a promotion!”

Hank was laughing then and shrugging, dipping down to plant a quick kiss on her cheek and then standing back up. “I was hoping you wouldn’t make a big deal out of it like everyone else,” he said. “Where’s Cole? He’s not at school at this time, is he?”

“He’s just getting done,” Mary said. “And I’m not making a big deal out of it. It deserves to be celebrated. I wonder if Sam can throw together a cake.” She leaned heavily against the wheels of her chair to get herself moving and pushed herself laboriously into the kitchen.

“No, no cake,” Hank said. “That’s where I draw the line. Look, it’s no big deal. I was just doing my job.”

“Then apparently your job is being a hero,” Mary said, still smiling wide. “Come on, Hank. I hardly ever get a reason to celebrate anything in here. Give me this, please?”

Hank smiled and ran his hand down his beard, as if he had to think the decision over a lot longer than he really had to. He then tossed his hands in the air and shrugged.

“Why not?” he said. “Why the hell not? Sam, play Escape.”

Sam smiled where she was still cutting apples, and a moment later, music faded in, coming from some unseen speaker. It didn't take long before it filled the entire apartment, and Mary was clapping her hands excitedly.

“You have to dance, you have to dance!” she said.

Hank rolled his eyes but he threw his hands wide and shuffled from side to side. He shimmied his shoulders back and forth and started forward, stepping closer and closer to Mary. As soon as the chorus started, he grabbed the armrests if her chair and spun her around in the small space of the kitchen. She was laughing and clapping, and Hank started singing.

“If you like Piña coladas,” he said, matching the words that played in the song. “And getting caught in the rain. If you're not into yoga and you have half a brain.”

Mary was giggling, holding his hands as he continued spinning her chair.

“If you like making love at midnight,” Hank sang, bending down to kiss her and missing the next line. He pulled away still smiling. “Then I'm the love that you've looked for. Write to me and escape.”

“My turn!” Mary said, pushing his hands off her chair and taking control for herself. She pushed herself forward right up to Hank and took his hands in her own.

She couldn't dance the same way he did. But she swayed back and forth, closing her eyes to the music and laying soft kisses on the backs of Hank's knuckles. She swayed to the music until the next chorus rolled around. When she sang, she was softer and quieter than Hank but no less beautiful.

“Yes, I like Piña coladas and getting caught in the rain,” she said, opening up her eyes to look up at Hank. “I'm not much until health foods. I am into champagne. I've got to meet you by tomorrow noon and cut through all this red tape.”

Hank was laughing at her mock serious expression, swaying back and forth with her.

“At a bar called O'Malley’s,” Mary sang. “Where we'll plan it escape.”

“This song is so damn old,” Hank said with a laugh. “I don't know why you like it so much.”

“It was a college party,” Mary said. “Come on. Seventies themed? You _have_ to remember.”

“Of course I remember,” Hank said. He stepped around her chair, grabbing the handles and pushing her out of the kitchen and into the living room. “At college. Because you sang it on the karaoke machine, drunker than anyone, and I thought you were beautiful.”

He leaned down to kiss her cheek from behind, and Mary laughed, leaning into the touch. She hooked her arms around his neck, pulling him down so he couldn't straighten back up. By now, the last chorus had come back around, and Hank and Mary both sang together, swaying back and forth with their eyes closed in bliss.

“That you like Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain. If you’re not into yoga, if you have half a brain,” they crooned into each other’s ears. “If you like making love at midnight in the dunes of the cape, then I’m the love that you’ve looked for. Write to me and escape.”

The music faded out, and after a moment of silence, the song began to replay. Mary laughed and pushed away from Hank, cheeks flushed from exhaustion.

“That’s enough, Sam,” she said. “You can stop it now.”

“Of course, Mrs. Anderson,” Sam said, and the song shut off. She turned around with a tray of apple slices and a couple bowls of peanut butter. She set it on the table and then looked to them. “Exercise is good for you,” she said. “But you need to make sure you don’t overexert yourself, ma’am. Come, get something to drink.”

“I’ll be fine, Sam,” Mary said, but she rolled her wheelchair over to the table and accepted the glass of water that Sam offered her.

“Cole should be coming back from school soon,” Sam informed her, pouring another glass for Hank and offering it. “I’ve prepared a small snack.” She gestured to the apples.

Hank accepted the water and took a long drink, taking a seat next to Mary. “You really should rest,” he said. “I didn’t mean to tire you out.”

Mary only flapped a hand. “Oh, there’s no need to baby me,” she said. “I’m not made of glass.” She was breathing pretty hard though and looked like she had been running and not just dancing and singing along to a song.

Hank took a deep breath but didn’t protest. Instead, he took another drink of water and looked to the Sam. “Do you have what I asked for?” he asked. “The woman I talked to said they didn’t normally provide residents with android parts but she would make an exception for me.”

“Of course, Mr. Anderson,” Sam said with a pleasant smile. “I can go get that for you now.”

She made sure everything was situated on the table, that Mary had enough water, and that there was an extra third glass on the table before walking to the front door. As soon as she opened it, Cole burst through, rushing past her and barely taking time to kick his shoes off and throw his backpack aside.

“Mom!” he said, immediately spotting Mary in the kitchen. He smiled even wider when he saw Hank. “Dad! And Pongo!”

“I forgot to tell him you were coming,” Mary said. She resting her head on her hand, elbow on the armrest of her chair. She sipped carefully at her glass of water in the other hand. “It must’ve . . . slipped my mind.”

“That’s okay,” Hank said, scooping Cole onto his lap and pulling the apple slices within reach. “How you doing, bud?”

“Good,” Cole said, greedily grabbing an apple slice and dipping it into the peanut butter. “We’re learning about bugs in science and I love bugs.”

“That sounds fun,” Hank said. “And you’re still working hard? Getting good grades?”

“Yup!” Cole said, munching his snack and grabbing the extra glass of water and taking a long drink.

Sam arrived back then, carrying an IV bag and tubing of blue thirium. She made sure the door was securely shut behind her and then carried the bag to the table, setting it near Hank. “There you are,” she said. “One bag of thirium, just like you wanted.”

“Thanks,” Hank said, scooping it up with a slight grimace. “Here, Pongo, you mentioned you needed something like this?”

“Yes,” Pongo said, surprised that Hank had remembered something as small as that. He walked over and accepted the bag from Hank, turning it over and figuring out how the tubes worked.

“You can ingest that however you want,” Hank said, turning his attention back to Cole and Mary. “Just . . . make sure it’s not disgusting.”

“Hank,” Mary chided, but she was still out of breath and the admonishment was half-hearted.

“Mrs. Anderson, you should know better than to exhaust yourself like that,” Sam said, immediately settling by her side and taking her glass of water to refill it. “Let’s get you some vitamins. That will make you feel better, yes?”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Mary said, wiping the thin sheen of sweat off her forehead.

“I’ll go to the bathroom,” Pongo told Hank, because he was pretty sure Hank wouldn’t want to see him talk off half his skin and inject the thirium into his joints. He excused himself and found the bathroom in the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

Pongo set the bad of thirium on the counter and got to work. He took off his jacket and then rolled up his sleeve, dissolving the skin of his forearm with a touch. He pressed the panels in his frame and found the one that opened up to reveal a port underneath. He took the main tube connected to the thirium bag and carefully slipped it into place. Once he was sure it wouldn’t leak, he cracked the seal on the bag and lifted it up, letting gravity pull it down into his body.

His systems thrummed to life, getting to work pumping the new thirium throughout his body. Pongo could feel himself running more smoothly already and he actually closed his eyes as the sensation. He hadn’t realized how slow he had become until he tested out his new speeds. It was a relief to be functioning at full capacity again.

It took a couple minutes for the bag to completely empty. Once it was, Pongo carefully pulled the tube out of his port and closed up the panel. He wrapped the bag up, not wanting to get anything on the counter. He pulled his skin back on and then pulled his jacket on too. He paused to give his systems a chance to completely circulate the thirium and then opened the door.

As soon as his hand met the doorknob, an alarm flashed through his network. It was directed at Sams because it contained some sort of code to action. Pongo didn’t understand it right away until Hank raised his voice.

“Mary? Mary, what’s wrong?”

“Mr. Anderson, please step back. I need to assess the damage.”

“Damage? You didn’t say anything about damage before!”

Pongo rushed forward, bursting back into the living room and immediately spotting Hank hovering over Mary. She was slouched in her seat, her glass of water having tumbled to the ground at some point. She was clutching her stomach, sweating, pale, and shaking. The Sam was trying to keep Hank back. Before Pongo could do anything, another Sam, male this time, burst through the front door, pushing a small medical cart and rushing up to Mary's side.

“Step aside, sir,” the new Sam said, brushing past Hank and stooping to help Mary. “We need to get her out of the chair and lay her prone.”

Both of the Sams grabbed Mary and eased her out of the chair, laying her on the ground as gently as possible. The female Sam went back to herding Hank away and keeping the space clear. Cole looked too scared to leave his seat, a forgotten apple slice clutched in his fist.

The male Sam knelt down next to Mary and ripped her shirt open. He pressed a hand to her neck, paused for a moment, and then pressed a hand over his mouth.

“Pulse is fading,” he said. “Stand-by.”

He crossed his palms and placed them in the middle of Mary's chest. He straightened his arms and then pumped with so much force her body jerked. After several pumps, he lifted her chin and plugged her nose, pressing his mouth against hers. He breathed for her for a moment and then quickly returned to pumping her chest. After several cycles of breathing and pumping, the Sam sat back and rolled up his sleeves.

“Stand-by,” he said. “Attempting to regain the pulse.” He rubbed his hands together for three seconds. “Clear!”

He pressed his palms flat on Mary's chest, and the electric shock jolted her body. The Sam was almost immediately pulling away, rubbing his hands together again.

“Clear!”

Another shock.

Mary's body jerked.

The Sam rubbed his hands together again.

“Pongo,” Hank barked, grabbing Cole roughly and dragging him away from the scene. “Take Cole to the lobby and stay there until I come and get you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Pongo said, stepping away quickly. He didn't like watching the Sams work anyway. “Are you sure—”

“Yes, I'm sure,” Hank snapped before Pongo could even finish. “Take Cole and go.”

Pongo didn't ask any questions as the order broke the regulation distance he could be away from Hank. That’s how he knew it was serious. He gently took Cole's hand in his own and pulled him out door. He shut it quickly behind them but now quick enough to block out the next “clear.” Pongo winced all the same, pulling a very silent Cole along with him.


	17. Chapter 17

“Is there anything fun to do around here?” Pongo asked, trying to distract Cole. He wasn't really calibrated to work with children as small as Cole but he was trying his best.

“Nothing's fun,” Cole mumbled, swinging his feet since he couldn’t reach the floor where he was sitting on the lobby sofa. “I want to go back to my room.”

“You can’t go back there,” Pongo said. “The Sams are at work, and Hank didn’t want you in the way.”

Cole pouted and threw his apple slice on the ground.

Pongo bent to retrieve it, not wanting to leave a mess in the lobby. It was squished and gummy, going brown from being exposed to the air so long. Pongo looked around for a trashcan but didn’t see one. That wasn’t much of a problem though. Pongo turned off his taste receptors and slid it into his mouth, swallowing it easily.

“They’ll be done soon,” Pongo said even though he didn’t know if it was the truth or not. “And I’m pretty sure Mary will be okay.”

Pongo didn’t know anything about medicine or human sickness and he certainly didn’t know anything that was wrong with Mary. Still, the words were meant to comfort Cole, not necessarily tell the truth. He took a seat next to the child and raised his body heat. A quick search on his current network revealed that humans liked physical contact in times of stress, and if he was warm, that made the contact even better.

Cole shifted a bit closer to him and leaned against his side.

Pongo smiled.

Success.

“I know Mom's sick,” Cole said quietly. “That's why we're here. At this place. It's a hospital.”

“It's more of a care center actually,” Pongo said. “Not everyone staying here is strictly ill. Some residents just need an extra hand in their life with certain tasks around the house.”

Cole sniffed and wiped his nose on Pongo's sleeve. “You don't make any sense.”

Before Pongo could say that he made absolutely _perfect_ sense, Hank was rushing into the lobby, gaze hard and unreadable. Pongo wanted to jump to his feet to see if he needed any help, but Cole was still hanging onto him and Pongo didn't want to disturb him. Cole almost immediately jumped to his feet though and raised his arms in Hank's direction.

Hank stormed over and scooped him up, tucking him against his shoulder and rubbing his back.

“Is everything alright?” Pongo asked now that he was able to stand on his own.

“We're going back to the house,” he said gruffly, already walking towards the door. “Cole’s coming with us.”

Pongo followed silently because he sensed that conversation at this point would be aggravating and not helpful. He did a quick search of the Center’s public files and found Mary’s. It was still up and open, but any further attempts and searching for her got him blocked by firewalls and restricted areas that required a password. If Mary had happened to pass away, the Sams wouldn’t have updated her file that quickly. But at the same time, her file was tightly closed off.

Pongo climbed into his usual seat in Hank’s car while Hank opened up the backseat and helped Cole into his own seat, making sure the seatbelt was buckled. He then walked around and climbed into the driver’s seat, and Pongo realized that the color had significantly drained from Hank’s face and he was visibly shaking.

“Should I drive?” Pongo offered. Normally he never would have asked, but it was a hazard to drive in the state Hank was in. Pongo didn’t want to allow such a hazard to happen if it were avoidable.

“I’m fine,” Hank said.

He twisted the key harshly and then backed out of the parking space with a jerky turn of the wheel. He stepped on the gas way to hard and shot out of the parking lot at a highly unsafe speed. Pongo even kept his mouth closed when he sped through a yellow light at the very last second.

“Is Mommy okay?” Cole said quietly from the backseat, asking the question that Pongo desperately wanted to know for himself. 

“Mommy’s gonna be fine,” Hank said, glancing up at Cole through the rearview mirror. His face softened and some of the tension left his shoulders. “She just . . . needs a chance to rest. So you’re gonna be staying with me for a bit, kiddo, as she sleeps and gets better.”

“Okay,” Cole said, just as quietly as before.

Pongo didn’t say anything, only gripped his armrests a bit tighter as Hank seemed to go faster and faster without any care for the world around them. It wasn’t that the road was hazardous of that the traffic was heavy, but driving while emotional was never a good idea for anyone. He didn’t dare say anything though, that would only make Hank more emotional and that would make the ride even more dangerous than before.

Hank took turns recklessly, barely applying the breaks and hardly acknowledging the stop signs. Red and green lights barely meant anything different to him. One was slow down slightly, the other was go even faster.

Other driver’s applied their horns if Hank cut them off too harshly or sped past in front of them. Pongo saw some of them waving fists and fingers, but Hank didn’t acknowledge them at all. They weren’t taking a route that Pongo recognized either.

The sun was starting to sink in the sky. It wasn’t really getting dark but still, with the light ever so slowly fading, it put Pongo on even more of an edge. Combining already risky driving conditions with even more risky driving conditions couldn’t be good at all.

Cole stayed quiet in the backseat. Pongo glanced back every few minutes to check up on him, but every time he looked, the little boy was just sitting obediently with his hands folded in his lap, staring down at his hands. He wasn’t even looking out the window, as if he completely understood the severity of the situation. Which he probably did, Pongo corrected himself. Mary was Cole’s mother, and Cole definitely knew that something was wrong with his own mother.

Pongo stopped checking after five minutes.

He debated shutting off some of his receptors just so that he wouldn’t have to be painfully aware of every dangerous driving mistake that Hank was making, but then he decided no. He definitely needed to be alert and aware right now, for Hank and maybe even for Cole.

They reached the house safely. Surprisingly. All statistics had pointed to them getting into some vehicular mishap. Hank hadn’t even used the self-driving application. But they pulled successfully into driveway and then into the garage. Hank shut the car off and stepped out.

Pongo followed suit, watching as Hank walked around the car and opened the back door on Cole’s side. He bent over and undid the seatbelt, grunting as he scooped Cole up and hefted him into his arms. He walked into the house without bothering to close the door.

Pongo closed everything up and then headed into the house.

Hank was settling Cole in, showing him where he could put his shoes but also taking off his own jacket. They were in the kitchen, and Hank had sat Cole down on the table now.

“You hungry?” he asked, his voice low and gruff. “What do you usually eat?”

“Sam always makes me apples after school,” Cole said quietly.

“Pongo, do we have apples?” Hank asked, finally acknowledging him as he walked into the kitchen.

“No,” Pongo said. “They were never on the shopping list so they were never purchased.”

“Shit,” Hank spat. “What _do_ we have?”

Pongo had an entire inventory of the food in the house and every time he saw Hank eating something, he made sure to adjust his items the best he could. There was no fresh food in the house. Or fresh vegetables. Pongo knew the fridge was packed with eggs and sausages and other various breakfast foods that Hank normally ate. The cupboards were stocked with cans of various types of soup. That would probably be the best bet for Cole.

“There’s soup in the cupboards,” he offered. “I could heat it up for you.”

“Do that,” Hank said, still tending to Cole. “Huh, buddy? How does chicken soup sound?”

“Good,” Cole said. He even smiled shakily. “That sounds better than apples.”

Hank patted him on the shoulder and smiled his own unstable smile. “Yeah, good.”

Pongo bustled around the kitchen, pulling out bowls and pts from their designated drawers. He grabbed two cans of soup chicken noodle soup from the cupboard and cracked them open, pouring them into the pot he had set on a burner turned on high. He wanted to cook it as fast as possible.

He made sure to continue keeping track of Hank and Cole behind him. He got out two bowls and two spoons and, after a thought, got out two glasses as well. He filled them with water from the tap at the sink because Hank didn’t really have another other kid-friendly drinks in the house. He found ice cubes in the freezer that would make it a little better than just normal water, and he then set them on the table.

Hank immediately grabbed one and gave it to Cole.

Pongo made a mental note to get more child-orientated food and beverages in the house the next time they were at the grocery store. He returned to his place at the stove and grabbed a large spoon from another drawer, stirring the soup that was starting the steam. He didn’t want it to burn and stick to the bottom of the pan.

It was starting to smell good too, seeping the kitchen in the comforting scent of warm food. Pongo adjusted the burned so that it was down a little, but not too much. There was bread too, somewhere in the cupboards that could be buttered and that would make a wonderful side dish to the soup. Plus, it was another filling thing to add to the meal. 

It took several more minutes for soup to heat up to a reasonable temperature. Pongo didn’t bring it to a boil since he didn’t want Hank or Cole to burn their mouths. He spooned half of the soup into each bowl and carried both to the table. He placed one in front of Hank and the other in front of Cole and then turned back to the cupboards to find the bread. He buttered up four slices, two for each, and plated them up neatly. Once he was sure that Hank and Cole were both fed, Pong began cleaning up the dishes he had created.

He took his time scrubbing up the spoons and pots and other utensils, not wanting to get done too quickly. There wasn’t much other cleaning to do in the house and Pongo would probably end up sitting in a corner to stay out of the way.

“Do I have to go to school?” Cole asked around a mouthful of soup. “Are you going to drive me back to school every day?”

Hank paused mid-bite, the spoon hovering just outside his mouth. He sighed and let the broth and chicken fall back into his bowl. “I’ll call them later tonight,” he said. “You won’t be going to school for a bit, I think.”

“But how am I going to learn?” Cole immediately asked.

“You can talk with Pongo,” Hank said. “I'm sure he knows plenty. Don't worry, we'll figure things out soon. Mom will be better in no time and then you'll be back in school before you know it.”

“But Mommy will get better, right?” Cole asked.

Hank didn’t speak right away. He ate his soup, sopping up broth with his slices of bread and taking small sips of water. “Yes,” he finally said. “She will. It might take a while, but she will get better.”

Pongo scrubbed at a particularly tough stain on the pan that that had already been sitting in the sink when he had started. He didn’t like listening to the conversation but he didn’t turn his audio receptors off. He had to listen, whether he wanted to or not.

“Pongo, why don’t you go get the guest bed ready,” Hank said.

“Of course,” Pongo said. The stain had been an excuse and wasn't coming out anyway, so he rinsed off the suds and set it aside to dry.

He only vaguely knew where the guest bedroom was and that was mostly through elimination. There were only so many doors in the house and since Pongo knew where the bathroom, living room, and Hank's bedroom were, and therefore it wasn't too hard to find the door that led to the spare bedroom.

The room wasn't too impressive. The walls were bare and the rest of the room was pretty devoid of furniture too. A small dresser was shoved into one corner. The bed was shoved into another. A small side table sat near the head of the bed, but that was it. The carpet was clean at least, and there was very little dust on any of the surfaces.

Pongo set to work tearing off the old blankets and sheets, finding more in the bottom drawer of the dresser that could replace them. Pongo folded the old beddings, since they were dustier than they were dirty, and set them aside. He made up the bed with the new blankets and sheets and then made sure everything else in the room was in place.

Once the room was back to being presentable, Pongo returned to the kitchen, just to make sure the Hank didn’t need any more help. If he and Cole were done eating as well, Pongo would have a couple more dishes to do. He paused in the doorway when he heard them talking, not wanting to disrupt the conversation if it were important.

“Something happened to Mom,” Cole was saying. “I've seen her cough before. If she really sick?”

Hank sighed. “Yes, she's sick. The Sams are doing their best to help and they said they would tell us more when they could.”

“Is it bad?” Cole asked.

Hank paused for a long moment. “Yes,” he finally said, like he had decided that Cole could hear what he was about to say. “Yes, I think it is bad. I want to think that she’ll get better, but it is bad right now.”

Cole was the one who sighed this time then. “I know,” he said. “All the kids at school talk about it, and sometimes they leave in the middle of class. I don’t think the Sams know we know.”

Hank laughed and it only sounded half-forced. “I don’t think the Sams are very smart anyway,” he said. “But look, Cole, we have each other, and we can both support Mom together. And we can support each other.”

“Okay,” Cole said, sounding a bit hesitant and unsure. “That sounds like it will be hard.”

Hank laughed again. “It will be,” he said. “I think. Yeah, it will be. But we can do it.”

Pongo decided against going back into the kitchen. Instead, he sneaked around the corner and slipped straight into the living room, settling quietly on the couch. He didn’t even bother taking off his coat. Instead, he lay down and idled into sleep mode, not wanting to ruin whatever moment Hank and Cole had created.


	18. Chapter 18

“I need to go to the office today,” Hank announced at breakfast the next day.

“What am I gonna do?” Cole asked around his mouthful of cereal.

“Stay with Pongo,” Hank said. “You can hang out in one of the spare meeting rooms while I work. But I want you to stay out of the way, understand? The people I work with can be dangerous and I don't want you getting hurt.”

“Okay,” Cole said softly.

Pongo was doing the dishes as quietly as he could, but the plates and bowls still seemed to clatter loudly no matter what he did. It wasn't like he was ruining the conversation, but he did want to be as quiet as possible. He was glad he was going to be able to go with Hank though. Cole was a different matter altogether.

Hank finished his own plate of eggs and toast and stood, placing it in the sink for Pongo to wash. He paused before turning completely away from the sink. “Are you going to need any toys or anything?” he asked Cole.

Pongo didn't see Cole's answer since he was washing Hank's dishes but he didn't really care. He was more finely tuned to Hank's needs and not anyone else's.

Sumo got a scoop of kibble for breakfast and once he was done with that, another scoop to eat later in the day. Pongo let him outside for bathroom purposes and then double checked on Hank, to make sure everything was okay.

Cole only had the clothes he was currently wearing, but Hank had draped a huge jacket over his shoulders, probably one of his older ones. It hung all the way down to Cole's knees and flopped over his hands, almost smothering him in its size.

Pongo checked the weather absentmindedly, noticing the significant drop in temperature that would be coming. He should have been checking it regularly, but the one thing Hank seemed to manage on his own was dressing for the weather. Pongo never thought it was important to check the forecast day-to-day.

“Ready to go,” Hank said, ushering Cole towards the door and barely sparing Pongo a second glance to make sure he was there before walking outside.

Pongo took his usual seat on the passenger’s side and waited as Hank buckled Cole into the backseat and then take his spot behind the wheel. He turned the car on and backed out of the garage without a word, flipping on the automated driving sequence and selecting the station as their destination. He sat back in his seat and let the car do the work of maneuvering itself through the streets.

“Am I going to get to see bad guys?” Cole asked.

“Maybe,” Hank said. “But I don't want to anywhere near them, understand?”

“Okay!” Cole said, now looking a lot more excited than before.

Pongo wasn't sure if he agreed with that decision. He could remember how terrifying Stevens had been and couldn't imagine how a small child like Cole would react. He let Hank decide though, finding it better to keep his mouth shut than to get in trouble.

The office wasn’t as busy as it normally was, several desks left empty when they walked in. Hank didn’t seem to mind. He led the way back to a spare meeting room, showing Pongo and Cole an empty table where they could stay. Pongo sat because the calculated distance between Hank’s desk and the room was within his qualified limits, so he wasn’t too worried.

Cole, on the other hand, jumped back out of his seat almost as soon as he sat down.

“Can I go with you?” he asked as Hank tried to walk back out of the room. “Where do you keep the bad guys? Do you have a room where you keep all your guns? Are there any other androids here? I’ve only ever talked with Sam. And Pongo now, I guess.”

“You’re gonna stay here,” Hank said, pointing back to the table where Pongo was still sitting. “I keep the bad guys locked up. No, there isn’t a room with the guns. There are no other androids here besides Pongo. Please, sit down.”

“I’m bored,” Cole said, definitely not sitting down where he was supposed to.

“How are you bored?” Hank said. “We just got here.”

“I’m bored because there’s nothing to do,” Cole said, latching onto Hank’s sleeve and hanging off his arm. “I can’t just sit at a table. I do that in school and it’s _boring_.”

Hank gestured to Pongo. “He’s doing it,” he said and then immediately sighed. “Shit, never mind. Pongo, do you come downloaded with games?”

“Nothing is pre-downloaded,” Pongo said. “I could look up videos. What sort of games do you want me to look up?”

“I don’t want to play games,” Cole whined. “I want to see bad guys. Like movies!”

“Anderson, what is this?”

Pongo looked up as Fowler stopped in the doorway of the room. If Pongo had to identify an emotion on his face, he would say it was less anger and more very, very confused. And maybe irritated.

“This is just a, uh, setback,” Hank said, trying to pry Cole’s hands away from his arm. “Temporary. Something happened with . . . at the hospital . . . I promise it’ll just be a day or two.”

Fowler raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment anything else. He only shrugged and continued walking.

“Ah, shit,” Hank muttered. 

Cole was still clinging to his arm. “Can we go see the bad guys now?”

Hank grunted. “Find, one bad guy. But then you and Pongo are coming back here and you’ll stay here until it’s time to go home, understand?”

Cole was just laughing though, having let go of Hank’s arm and was now bouncing around his legs. “I wanna see the bad guys!” he said. “I wanna see the guns! Come on, Pongo, Dad says we can see the bad guys.”

Pongo obliged, falling into step behind Hank as he stormed out of the room and down the hall. They walked through the main office and down another hallway to a set of cross with glass front doors to show off the occupants inside. There were four along the one wall, the opposite side with desk space for filling out paperwork and such.

The first three cells were empty with their doors still closed securely. The last one, the one farthest from the door, was the only cell that was occupied.

Pongo swallowed hard when he saw Stevens.

Stevens smiled wide, all teeth, when he looked up and saw Pongo.

“Alright,” Hank said, stopping in front of the cell and tapping the glass harshly. He looked down to make sure that Cole was looking. “See? Bad guy. Are you happy?”

“He doesn't _look_ like a bad guy,” Cole said but he hadn’t come out front behind Hank's legs.

“He's the only bad guy we have here right now,” Hank said. “So it's him or nothing.”

Stevens still hadn't taken his eyes off Pongo. He was reclining on his bed, back against the wall, legs folded like he was sitting in his own bedroom rather than a prison cell. His ease and nonchalant attitude made Pongo uneasy. His system didn’t know how to handle the contradiction and was creating excess energy in preparation for the unseen, potential danger. 

“Satisfied?” Hank asked Cole.

Cole pouted but nodded. “Fine,” he said.

“Good,” Hank said, already taking Cole’s hand and tugging him back towards the way they had come. He barely paid Pongo a second glance only to call over his shoulder, “Pongo, stay. I’ll be back.”

Pongo was froze in his spot anyway but Hank’s offhand order ensured he wouldn’t be going anywhere until Hank returned. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Stevens, and Stevens wouldn’t stop smiling. As soon as Hank and Cole were out of the room, he pushed himself to his feet.

“If it isn’t my favorite little android model,” he said, walking right up to the glass and stopping right in front of Pongo. “How are you doing today?”

Hank hadn’t said anything about not speaking to Stevens, so Pongo swallowed without meaning to and did what was polite. “I’m doing well. And yourself?”

“I’m in this shit hole,” Stevens said with a pleasant smile. “Eating shitty food. Talking with shitty cops. You’re the best thing I’ve seen this whole time.”

Pongo wasn’t sure if that was a compliment but he did his best to return Stevens’s smile anyway. “Thank you,” he said, because that was the appropriate human response to receiving a compliment.

Stevens was still smiling at him, hands stuffed into the pockets in the orange jumpsuit he was wearing. He rocked back on his heels. “Aren’t you just the sweetest thing,” he said. “You know, I’ve worked with your model so many times, but I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of actually talking with one of you like this.”

Pongo didn’t want to think of what Stevens usually did with his models. He wanted to step away from the cell and go to find Hank, but he had the order to stay. He would wait for Hank here.

“You know,” Stevens continued. “I think your model is one of the cutest I’ve ever seen. Not many of the editions that Cyberlife releases are such good looking at you are.”

“Thank you,” Pongo said. He understood the appeal of a model that was good looking. It made sense, in his case. It would help him blend more easily into the life of whatever human he was assigned to. Still, he didn’t understand what standards made humans attractive or not, so he didn’t have the authority to return any similar compliment to Stevens.

“So tell me,” Stevens said. “Are you Anderson’s lapdog? Is that why you always follow him around?”

“I’m not a dog,” Pongo said. “Or any sort of animal. But I do assist Hank in his day-to-day life, however he needs it.” He didn’t want to release any specific information, but what he had said seemed harmless enough. If Stevens pressed for anything more, then Pongo wouldn’t answer. As long as the topics remained light though, Pongo didn’t see anything wrong with it.

“I wouldn’t mind having a model like yourself for my own,” Stevens said, his smile fading to less teeth. “You know? Like a spouse to have around the house, cleaning up and shit. I’m not much of a relationship guy but that sounds kind of nice.”

He pressed his hand against the glass, right over Pongo’s chest if they hadn’t been separated by distance.

“I’ve never worked well with androids though,” he said. “They just keep . . . dying on me. You know?”

Pongo didn’t know. He didn’t know what to say.

Stevens didn’t seem to be put off by his silence. “And I’ve tried, trust me,” he said. “Tried _so hard_ to keep them alive. I feed and water them, like you would any other pet. I’ll even take them on walks outside. But for some reason I can never really understand, they always die off on me. Isn’t that strange?”

“I guess,” Pongo said. He didn’t really have enough details to properly judge if Stevens was taking care of the androids in the manner they needed or not.

“I would take care of you though,” Stevens said, trailing his fingers down the glass until he stopped at waist height. “I would take such good care of you.” With a wink, he pulled away from the glass and was back in his bed before Pongo could ask what he meant about the weird way of saying something that would normally be comforting.

“Pongo, come on,” Hank snapped, leaning into the room so suddenly that Pongo flinched, not expecting it. “Stop staring at Stevens.”

Grateful that he was finally allowed to move, Pongo stepped away from the glass and towards Hank, hurrying out of the room with a sigh of relief. While maintaining conversation wasn’t something too hard to do, maintaining it with Stevens was hard. Pongo didn’t want to be left alone in a room with him, even if he did his best to take care of androids, his last experience in that respect had rattled him too much.

“Coming,” he said, joining Hank outside the hallway of cells.

“Cole is in the meeting room,” Hank said, messing with something on his phone and not looking up to acknowledge Pongo. “Evans had some crayons in his desk because of his kids or some shit. I gave him some paper so he should be good for maybe an hour.”

“That’s good,” Pongo said. “Should I go back there and stay with him?”

Hank looked up then a look of mild surprise on his face as if he had forgotten who he was talking to for a moment. “No,” he said. “Once he’s bored of coloring, then you can go and entertain him. For now, I want you to come to the office.” 

Pongo wasn’t sure how much help he would be just sitting in the office, but he didn't complain about the chance to stay closer to Hank. So he followed obediently and took a seat across the desk from Hank. He watched Hank type away at his computer for a couple minutes. He didn’t want to bother Hank and wasn’t going to say anything, but it was Hank that spoke first.

“I wish we could access your memory chip,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Pongo but it was conversation nonetheless. “We could convict Stevens in a heartbeat.”

“Why can’t we?” Pongo said, shuffling through his applications, searching for his gallery. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

Hank sighed. “The last time you tried that, sparks came out of your ears. I don’t want to risk frying your brain.”

Pongo paused immediately before accessing his memory, not want to do anything that would make Hank upset. Besides, simply remembering things was different than looking into his gallery or memory chip. And Pongo could remember a time in the past when he had tried to access it and that had resulted in an immediate shut down. While he couldn’t get very many details past that, he did know that it was a bad thing and that it would only hurt him if he tried to open his gallery.

So he didn’t.

“We’ll just have to get through this a different way,” Hank said. “A way that you don’t have to fry all your circuits.”

Pongo was glad that Hank was picking up on the android lingo and realizing that Pongo wasn’t built the same way he was. It was reassuring to know that, while Pongo was fitting relatively seamlessly into Hank’s life, Hank still understood the differences between them.

“I want to help in whatever way I can,” he said. “If I can’t access my memory chip without distress, then allow me to find another way to assist you.”

Hank just sighed and ran his hands over his face, leaning back in his chair.

Pongo glanced up, momentarily distracted as, on the other side of the room, Reed limped into the main office area, clutching both a white styrofoam coffee cup and his side. Pongo remembered he had hurt it while arresting Stevens and guessed that Reed was making a slow and painful recovery based on how he was moving. He then turned his attention back to Hank, where it was supposed to be.

“We’ll do something alright,” Hank muttered, more to himself this time than to Pongo. “Yeah, we’ll do something. Don’t know what the fuck, but we’ll do something.”

Action was good and needed in a normal human’s life, and Pongo was glad to know that Hank was focusing on moving forward instead of dwelling on the past. It showed emotional progress and maturity. It showed that Hank was growing more independent.

It was progress, and Pongo was built for progress of every kind.


	19. Chapter 19

“We’re going to have to start layering you up more with the way this weather is heading,” Hank said as he helped Cole back into the oversized jacket.

Pongo turned up his internal temperatures to protect his more delicate computer systems and waited for them to be ready to leave. He didn’t really need the extra layers that Hank and Cole needed but he was more than willing to wait for them while they got ready. He checked the weather report for the next few days so that he could plan for this dressing ritual in the future.

Cole didn’t seem to mind being wrapped up so tightly. He had the pile of papers he had colored clenched tightly in one hand and was excitedly chatting with Hank about how his day and everything that had happened while he had been in the breakroom.

Pongo tuned out most of it. His audio centers were more finely tuned to Hank’s voice anyway. As soon as Hank began talking again, Pongo would start paying attention.

“Hey, Pongo, are you listening?” Hank asked.

Pongo blinked back to himself. “Of course.” He was always listening to Hank.

“Come on, we’ve got to go,” Hank said, directing Cole towards the door. “I bet Sumo is hungry and I didn’t mean to leave him all day. I’m not used to having three kids to look after.” The last part was mumbled, and Pongo wanted to protest against it.

He wasn’t a child to be lumped in with Cole and Sumo. And Sumo wasn’t even human and couldn’t be lumped in with Cole either. In fact, none of them had anything in common that would cause them to be sorted into similar categories. Hank lumping them all together was a strange choice and it technically wasn’t right by any means. But Hank was already walking out the door hand-in-hand with Cole, and Pongo followed quickly behind them.

“And then Officer Ryce let me color on her cast, and I drew a puppy just like Sumo,” Cole was still saying. “And he was so big that he was from her ankle to her knee and she seemed _so_ _happy_ that I had done it.”

“Yes, I’m sure she was,” Hank said absentmindedly, leading the way down the steps and into the parking lot.

“Careful!” Pongo said, quickly stepping forward to grab Hank’s arm as he stepped on a patch of ice that he hadn’t noticed.

His feet skidded out from under him but with Pongo’s grasp on his arm, he was able to stay standing even if he did flail a bit. He had to cling to Pongo while he struggled to get his feet underneath him, but after a couple moments of embarrassing flailing, he recovered and yanked his arm away from Pongo. He was glaring and he was already snapping at Pongo.

“Get your damn hands off me,” he said. “I was gonna be fine. No need to get so friendly with it.”

Pongo accepted that he wasn’t going to get a thank you out of Hank and stepped back. Cole hadn’t fallen and was hovering a bit protectively around Hank. They would be fine, and Pongo took the chance to survey the rest of the parking lot for ice. Depending on the path they took, they could be completely fine. Or Pongo could just warn Hank otherwise.

He let Hank bluster and sputter and recover his dignity and waited patiently. It didn’t take long before Hank stormed away from him. He probably wouldn’t listen to Pongo anyway, so Pongo just stayed nearby and readied himself to step forward if Hank encountered more ice.

He didn’t, and they made it successfully to the car.

Hank buckled Cole into his seat in the back, and Pongo took his usual spot on the passenger's side. Hank slide behind the wheel. He turned the key to start the car but then selected the home option and let the car pull out onto the street by itself. His chair turned around so he could face Cole. Pongo hesitated and then turned his seat as well.

Cole was apparently very excited that the car was able to change the way it was, and it took a moment as Hank explained that his chair didn’t move in the same way.

“I’m hungry,” Cole said, his mind flitting from topic-to-topic almost too fast to follow. “When are we gonna get food? What are we gonna eat?”

Hank sighed. “I didn’t think about that,” he mumbled. He pulled out his phone and typed something in.

Pongo scanned the screen and looked up the number that Hank was dialing. He discovered a small burger place that claimed to deliver. Pongo guessed that Hank could easily order some sort of dinner for both himself and Cole and have it ready when they arrived home. It was a good plan, and while the food wasn’t the best nutritional option, Pongo figured that the emotional comfort it would provide was probably more important than that.

He let it slide.

Cole spent the rest of the ride chatting about everything he had done and Pongo spent the rest of the ride ignoring him. He checked up on Hank though, watching his heartbeat and making sure he wasn’t too stressed. It was something to do, at least, with the ride being so boring.

Pongo re-alerted himself when the car pulled into the driveway, paying special attention as Hank unbuckled both himself and Cole. Pongo followed them inside, crouching down so that Sumo could slobber all over his face. At least the puppy was excited to see him.

“Food will be here shortly,” Hank told Cole, helping him out of his oversized jacket and hanging it on the back of a kitchen chair. “Burgers and fries.”

“Sounds great!” Cole said, already grabbing a squeaky toy from the floor and waving it to catch Sumo’s attention.

Sumo was much happier to have someone willing to play with him and was yapping excitedly before Cole even threw the toy. When he did, Sumo happily chased down the toy and wrestled with it, squeaking it loudly several times before dragging it back to Cole for him to throw again. Which he did, happy about this new game of fetch. Sumo was happy too.

And so was Pongo. With both Sumo and Cole occupied, he could turn his attention to Hank and making sure everything was okay.

Hank was in the kitchen, starting the coffee maker even though it was later in the day and a quick search told Pongo that coffee tended to be a morning drink. Still, Hank scooped grounds into a filter and set a pot to brew. He pulled a mug down from a cupboard and leaned against the counter to wait.

“Is everything okay?” Pongo asked. “You aren’t too stressed with everything going on?” Stress was never good for any humans. It was even dangerous for androids in high enough doses. Keeping Hank calm would definitely be beneficial to his health and a priority on Pongo’s list of things to do.

“Everything’s fine,” Hank said.

Pongo figured that everything wasn’t fine. Hank was probably just saying that because Cole was one room over. It was hard to discuss things with a child nearby, and Pongo knew that Hank would probably admit to nothing with him so close. Pongo would accept the answer for now and later, when Cole was in bed or asleep, then he would press Hank for a bit more.

The coffee machine chimed that it was done, and Hank poured himself a full cup. He drank it black, like he usually did, and Pongo let him. The doorbell chimed and Hank set the cup aside, pushing himself up off the counter.

“Could you feed Sumo?” he asked, already walking through the living room towards the front door.

Pongo was grateful for an order and grabbed the bag of kibble off the counter. He shook it and whistled for Sumo. He wasn’t sure if the puppy would abandon the game of fetch he had been playing with Cole, but at the prospect of food, he abandoned his toy and bounded towards Pongo. He jumped excitedly around Pongo’s legs, licking his hands and nipping at his fingertips to get at the food.

“Easy, easy,” Pongo coaxed, scooping out the directed amount and bending to put it into Sumo’s dish. He got a face-ful of slobbery kisses for his troubles, and he gave Sumo a scratch on the ears as a thank you.

“Dinner’s here,” Hank told Cole as he carried the handful of paper bags into the kitchen. “I hope you like burgers and fries.”

“Mom _never_ lets me have burgers,” Cole said, scrambling up into a chair and slapping his hands excitedly on the table. “She says they’re unhealthy, and Sam never brings the ingredients for them.” 

“Well, eat up,” Hank said, tossing over two burgers wrapped in paper and then pulling out one big container of fries. “This is a usual meal in this house. Get used to it.”

Cole was already unwrapping one of the burgers and happily digging in. He didn’t seem perturbed at all that the food was unhealthy or that it had arrived in a greasy bag or that Hank was unwrapping his own burgers and that paper was already wet with grease. It definitely seemed like an unhealthy choice for any sort of consistent meal prep, but Pongo let them have it. They looked so happy eating it and Cole was wide-eyed with wonder at the salty fries and stacked burgers.

Pongo sat silently and waited obediently while they ate, using the time to run through all his own systems and weed out the few viruses that had accumulated. He cleared them out easily enough and set about charging while he waited.

Pongo wanted to suggest bathes for both Hank and Cole before they went to sleep, but Hank washed both of their hands in the sink and sent Cole off to the guest bedroom before Pongo could make the suggestion. Again, it was better than nothing, so Pongo didn’t object. He only made a note to suggest better hygiene maintenance tomorrow.

He waited in the living room as Hank showed Pongo to a guest bedroom somewhere further in the house. He knew the privacy would do the two good and didn't want to disturb any personal bonding time they could have. It only took a couple minutes for Hank to reappear and he looked significantly more exhausted than before, as if he had been keeping up a facade for Cole and was finally letting it down.

“Is Cole in bed?” Pongo asked, using an obvious question to start off the conversation.

“Yeah, _finally_ ,” Hank said, plopping down in the spot next to Pongo on the couch. “I don't remember kids having so much energy.”

“It's common,” Pongo said, because all of his network searches returned with articles and videos on games and techniques that could be used to tire out children for their parents.

“Yeah, well, I didn't know how Mary and the Sams do it,” Hank said, running his fingers through his hair and then dropping his head into his hands. “Shit,” he murmured.

Pongo immediately sat up, expecting the worst. “What is it?”

“I'm just thinking about all of this,” Hank said. The fact that he even answered surprised Pongo, but exhaustion in humans did lower inhibitions. “About Cole. Mainly about Mary. I know she's sick.”

Pongo didn't know the specific reason that Mary was in the care center so he couldn't look up any diseases. Instead, he looked up comforting methods that humans normally employed with each other.

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” he said. He knew where Hank kept the bottles of beer in the fridge and pushed himself to his feet, making his way to the kitchen. “Humans have an amazing immune system and the fantastic history of recovering from diseases.”

Pongo barely even had to search a network to find proof of that. While in the kitchen he stripped off his jacket to give him more of a relaxed look for Hank's benefit and then grabbed two bottles of beer out of the fridge. He easily uncapped them and carried them back to where Hank was sitting, offering him one. It was accepted with a grunt of appreciation, and Pongo returned to his seat.

“Cheers,” Hank said, his voice slightly bitter. He tipped back a long drink, and Pongo mimicked him.

It wasn’t a healthy amount of drinking, but when Hank finished his first beer, Pongo did return to the fridge to grab him a second one. And then a third. And then a second for himself. And then a fourth for Hank. He was about to protest when Hank knocked back the fourth bottle just as fast as the first since that was going to be the best place to stop, but Hank didn’t ask for another.

Instead, he pushed himself to his feet with the same resigned sigh and staggered off towards the bedroom.

Pongo waited to make sure he safely made it all the way to his bed and then set about cleaning up the bottles that had been left over. He rinsed them out of any residue and peeled off their paper labels before setting them aside to dry before being recycled. He straightened out the cushions on the couch, readying it for when he lay down.

He couldn’t idle into sleep mode with liquid in his stomach though, so Pongo made his way to the bathroom instead. He didn’t want to make too much of a commotion so he quietly stripped off his normal uniform and stepped into the tub.

It was easy to figure out how to detach the showerhead from its stand and Pongo turned on lukewarm water, nothing that would hurt his systems but something that would get him clean. Pongo retracted his skin and opened his stomach compartment. The beer spilled out over his fingers and down his legs to filter down the drain.

Pongo rinsed himself out and then off, making sure there was no sticky residue left over even on his legs. He toweled himself dry just as thoroughly because he was going to guess that sleeping with his stomach open was inappropriate with Cole in the house. Once he was sure he was clean and dry again, Pongo closed himself back up and pulled his clothes back on. He made sure all the lights were off except for the ones above the sink in the kitchen just in case Cole or Hank woke up during the night.

Pongo then retired to his usual place on the couch, laying down and finally letting himself idle into sleep mode, welcoming the almost-darkness that greeted him.


	20. Chapter 20

Pongo powered up far earlier than he needed just to make sure that he was ready when Cole and Hank got up. It was perfect too. The house was quiet in the early morning, the night lights that Pongo had left on last night making that place hazy and slightly unreal. Pongo turned them off and set about readying the kitchen.

He knew Hank liked to cook and trying to take over that job for himself would only result in an argument. Instead, Pongo filled the reservoir of the coffee maker and put fresh grounds into a filter to brew into a fresh pot. He pulled out the usual pans that Hank used and set them on the stove. He found the vegetable spray and the cooking utensils Hank used and put them within easy reach.

If he had a bag of oranges, Pongo could provide fresh squeezed juice for Cole. As it was, Pongo satisfied himself with filling a pitcher with water and ice to provide a refreshing drink to go along with breakfast. Pongo wiped down the counters to have them clean for later. He then returned to his spot on the couch and let himself idle until Cole and Hank woke up.

It only took several minutes before Hank stumbled out of his bedroom and into the kitchen, rubbing his face and already grumbling about work.

Pongo powered back on and stood, ready to offer his assistance.

“Good morning,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Just great,” Hank said, pouring himself a cup of fresh coffee and not questioning where it had come from. “Just . . . great.”

“Should I wake up Cole?” Pongo asked, even though his linguistics programming told him Hank was being sarcastic. He found it better not to argue or try to get Hank to explain himself when he said such conflicting words. “You could get breakfast started.”

Hank grunted, but Pongo figured that was a better answer than anything.

He waited until Hank had pulled the half-empty carton of eggs out of the fridge and turn the knob on the stove to start the skillet to pre-heat. Satisfied that Hank was functioning, Pongo heading down the hall to where he guessed the guest bedroom was. The first door he opened was correct and Pongo eased himself inside.

Light from the hallway leaked through the open door, and Pongo turned up the sensitivity of his optic programming in order to see the Cole-shaped lump on the bed. He stepped quietly across the room, not wanting to wake up Cole prematurely.

“Hey,” he said softly. A quick search told him the humans did best when woken gently and without loud noises to cause stress. “Cole, it’s morning.” He rested a hand on Cole’s shoulder and gently shook him, just enough to pull him out of his dreaming.

Cole groaned similarly to Hank and rolled over, pulling his pillow over his head as if that would block out Pongo.

Pongo tried shaking him again, a little bit harder this time because Cole was clearly more awake than before. “Cole, wake up. Hank is making breakfast if you’re hungry.”

“Tired,” Cole mumbled, still not pulling the pillow away from his face.

“I understand,” Pongo said, even though he didn't understand. “But Hank is making breakfast. Don't you want to eat? And then we'll be going back to the station.” Cole had loved the station before, and Pongo hoped that would coax him out of bed.

Cole grunted and finally sat up, his hair sticking every which way from being under the blankets and pillows. He yawned and stretched his arms over his head. He resignedly crawled out of bed and raised his arms to Pongo, clearly expecting to be carried to the kitchen.

Pongo scooped him up carefully under the arms and propped him on his hip, which felt like the most natural position. He carried Cole out of the bedroom, making a note to make the bed before leaving the house.

Hank already had a pan full of scrambled eggs and sandwich meat frying up in a pan and a half-empty coffee mug sitting next to him. He glanced up when Pongo walked in and wordlessly grabbed another plate from the cupboard, so that three plates sat next to the pan of food. 

Pongo set Cole down next to the table and pulled out his seat, pouring him a glass of water and setting it well within reach. He then turned to make sure Hank was okay. He knew better than to get in the way of the cooking, but he could always make sure that Hank had everything he needed.

Hank was content to cook it peace, it seemed. Pongo refilled his coffee cup but other than that, he wasn’t needed. So he slipped back into Cole’s bedroom to make the bed. He then returned to the kitchen and stood to the side, out of the way, waiting for Hank and Cole to finish breakfast.

Hank finished cooking up the mess of a dish, adding a couple containers of leftovers to the pan before declaring it done and taking it off the burner. He scooped equal portions onto the plates and carried all three to the table, sliding one across to Cole, keeping one for himself, and setting the third down at an open seat, presumably for Pongo.

Pongo didn’t tell him he couldn’t eat.

He sat down and pulled the plate closer, grabbing one of the forks Hank had tossed in the middle of the table. He took a huge bite and swallowed. He couldn’t taste anything, but Hank and Cole were both eating and it felt nice to be a part of a group.

“I’m going into the station today,” Hank said, more to Cole than to Pongo. “I’ve got to talk with more bad guys and my boss needs me there. Are you going to be okay if you come along?”

“Can I bring books?” Cole asked, taking a drink of his water.

Hank shrugged. “I think I have boxes of stuff from before . . . I think I have books in the attic,” he said. “Pongo can take you up once you finish breakfast and you can find something you like.”

Cole hummed happily in agreement and continued eating, picking around the bits of vegetable and eating the eggs with gusto. He was much more awake now that he had food.

Pongo matched him bite for bite, wanting to get done at the same time so that they could go into the attic right away. He cleared their plates when they were both empty and then caught Cole's hand so they could walk upstairs together.

Hank shouted some lefts and rights at them but for the most part, Pongo would simply be searching.

The upstairs of the house wasn't too different from the downstairs. The tiny attic was stuffed to the ceiling with boxes and storage containers all crammed full of clothes and books and other odds and ends. There was a single light bulb hanging from a wire that was a definite fire hazard but Pongo turned it on anyway because Cole needed to see. Pongo immediately started scanning for books or boxes than contained books. He found one easily enough and hunched over to walk to it. Cole was already digging through a box of what looked like stuffed animals.

“How about this one?” Pongo asked, pulling out a thin book was a cartoon cat drawn on the cover. The title insinuated that the reader would be learning about letters and numbers.

Cole glanced up and wrinkled his nose. “I want to read something more grown up.”

Pongo nodded and replaced the book. He knew Hank would disapprove of anything too adult, since he cherished Cole as a child, not as a colleague. Pongo continued digging through the box, looking for something with chapters but nothing too dark or too adult. He finally came across a short chapter book, the title urging the reader to join best friends Jake and Caleb, kid detectives, as they solved all sorts of mysteries.

Pongo offered it to Cole.

Cole's eyes lit up at the sight of the cover and he abandoned the stuffed bear that he had been cuddling with, jumping up to grab the book from Pongo's hands.

“Jake and Caleb!!” he cheered, striking a pose as if he had seen it on a TV show. “Kid detectives!!”

“Is that the one you want to take with you?” Pongo asked, just in case he had to dig through the box for a third time. He was pretty sure the answer would be yes though.

Cole was already nodding, clutching the book to his chest as he already headed towards the stairs.

Pongo stood as best he could, brushed the dust off his knees, and followed after, wanting to make sure Cole didn't trip or fall. Cole was already successfully down the stairs though, running to the kitchen to show off his book to Hank.

Hank was just finishing up washing the dishes from breakfast and was drying off his hands, listening to Cole talk about how awesome Jake and Caleb were and how he always watched their TV show after school every single day.

“I need to shave and finish getting ready,” Hank said, tussling Cole's hair and then stepping around him. “How about you and Pongo let Sumo outside and get him some food. Then we'll be already to go.”

Sumo was eager for the attention and to get outside, even dragging a toy along with him. Pongo let him play a couple games of fetch, knowing Hank would need several minutes to get done in the bathroom. Sumo was ecstatic at the chance for exercise and so was Cole.

Sumo got plenty of belly rubs and then his own breakfast outside as well. Pongo refilled the water bowls both inside and out in case Sumo came back inside. He herded Cole back inside once he spotted Hank through a window, making a note to grab the coat he had been using.

Pongo double checked that both Hank and Cole we're sufficiently bundled as they walked out the door. He had his own jacket but it was easier to turn down his temperature receptors instead. Still, it helped him blend in.

He took his usual spot on the passenger side and waited for Hank to buckle Cole into place. Hank then climbed behind the wheel, steering manually this time, and they were off.

Pongo noticed Hank drove with a definite increase in safety awareness with Cole riding in the backseat. He kept to the speed limit. He used his turned signal. He didn't even threaten to run any yellow lights.

Or maybe that was the safety setting of the car, picking up on a minor passenger.

In any case, they reached the station safe and sound, and Hank unloaded Cole just like he usually did. Pongo climbed out all by himself, following Hank and Cole through the front doors. Cole was situated in the same meeting room as yesterday, but when Pongo moved to sit next to him to keep him company, Hank stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“I need you with me,” he said and was turning and walking away before Pongo could say anything.

Cole was already on page five in his book, swinging his feet back and forth and completely occupied. He would be plenty fine on his own, plus, Pongo's programming was to Hank, not to Cole. He hurried after Hank, eager to see what work needed to be done.

Hank was sorting papers at his desk, not sitting down but gathering a file that he could take somewhere else. He barely glanced up when Pongo stepped up next to him.

“Here's the thing,” he said. “Stevens likes you. In a disgusting, perverted sort of way that only a serial killer could. But he talks around you.”

Pongo wasn't sure where this was going.

“I would normally never do this,” Hank said, apparently satisfied with all his papers and straightening. “But I need you to come with me. Just for a couple minutes. Into the interrogation room. I swear, I won't let him touch you and I promise that the moment he's a gross fuck I'm taking you out of there.”

Oh. Then this was something that Pongo could do easily.

“I’ll be okay,” he said. “Stevens cannot hurt me in any permanent way. I’ll be fine. Besides, I trust your judgement and you need to do your job. I understand.”

Hank sighed and lead the way down a different hallway, to a room with one-way glass walls, without a word.

Stevens was sitting inside still his that same orange jumpsuit and still smiling, softly down at his hands as if he were lost in his own thoughts.

“You good?” Hank asked, pausing in front of door to the room. He glanced back over his shoulder at Pongo.

Pongo nodded dutifully. “Of course.”

Hank nodded and then pushed the door open, and Pongo followed him into the room.

Stevens smiled even wider when he looked up and his eyes landed on Pongo. He even sat up straighter in his chair, squaring back his shoulders like he was a child in class and the teacher had just walked in.

“Well, well, well, if it isn't my favorite android and his carry-on officer,” he said. “Do you pay him by the hour or is it by the day?”

“I don't pay him at all,” Pongo said, staying behind Hank and not walking any further into the room.

“I'll be doing the talking,” Hank said, taking the chair across from Stevens. He slammed the file down on the table. “You’re here to talk to me, not the android.”

Stevens only smirked. “I can multitask. I’m not some idiot.”

“I think you are _some idiot_ ,” Hank said with a dirty look. “And once we positively identify you, you’ll be convicted for everything you’ve done and at worst, you’ll be behind bars the rest of your life. At best, you’ll be on death row.”

Stevens didn’t look too worried. In fact, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “You know, you aren’t being too nice to me,” he said. “I don’t feel like talking to people who aren’t nice.”

“Look here,” Hank growled, snapping open the file and spreading out some of the papers he had brought. “I need to do this—”

“Awe, Anderson,” Stevens said. “Is paperwork a bitch? Can’t take me to court unless you have a warrant? I guess I’m untouchable unless you’ve dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s, huh?”

Hank sighed but didn’t say anything, recovering his composure if Pongo had to guess. Pongo didn’t have to guess though. He simply logged Hank’s body language and catalogued it as relaxation.

“We’re onto you,” he said. “We’ve got a case and evidence and witnesses. It’s not ‘paperwork’ that I need, it’s the judges to get their asses into gear. I need the press to get off my ass, and I need you to stop acting like this is a fucking game.”

Stevens turned deadly serious, suddenly frowning and leaning forward in his chair. His handcuffs rattled as he yanked on them, testing their strength casually but seriously. “Oh, believe me, I know it’s not a _fucking game_ ,” he said. “Believe me, I want to be a free man. I know how to bluff my way through a poker game, but I also know how fold while I’m ahead, when I’ve got a shitty hand of cards.”

It was Stevens who paused to take a break and a breath this time, composing himself just like Hank had moments before. He shifted his gaze past Hank to Pongo, and the tension flowed out of his shoulders. He was smiling again in a heartbeat.

“You know what _is_ a fucking game?” he said. “Androids, and playing with their little memory chips until all that’s left is images of you, cutting open their thirium pumps and making Red Ice out of their insides. You know what it’s like to reboot an android over and over so that it can _only_ think about you? That’s all their memory chip contains?”

Pongo shivered without meaning to, all of his systems trying to orientate themselves in case he needed immediate action.

“Now that’s a game,” Stevens said. “A real fun fucking game.”

“Pongo, get out of here,” Hank snapped, not taking his eyes off Stevens.

Pongo didn’t move. He was locked in the swirling grey depths of Stevens’s eyes and the snake tattoos on his face, his programming deeming it too dangerous to look away.

Hank slammed his palm on the desk, making both Pongo and Stevens jump in surprised.

“I said _get out,_ Pongo!”

Pongo got out.

He hurried back to the break room where Cole was curled up in his seat, completely absorbed in his book. He didn’t even look up when Pongo sat next to him, folding his hands in his lap. His memory was carefully storing the last several minutes in careful detail, tucking the audio, visual, and sensory files away in his memory card. Pongo wanted to reboot himself to get rid of them.

Had he helped Hank?

Pongo hoped he had.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a note for human gore. and robot gore. nothing too bad but it might get a bit messy

“Of course I want more information other than ‘we’re working on it,’” Hank was saying, almost yelling the words into his phone. “This is my wife we’re talking about and I want to know how things are going, goddamnit!”

Pongo held tightly to Cole's hand to keep him from wandering off while Hank paced the lobby of the station. They had been about to leave when Hank had gotten a phone call, and now he was fuming.

“No, _you_ called _me_ ,” Hank said, glaring off into space. “And now you're not telling me anything. I'm not being _unreasonable_. I just want to know what you're doing with my goddamn wife!”

Pongo was keeping his mouth shut for the moment. He could easily guess that the call was from the facility where Mary had been staying, maybe a Sam or a doctor calling to update Hank on the progress of her health. Perhaps the details were unsatisfactory or perhaps the details weren't what Hank was expecting. Either way, now Hank was angry at his phone and it didn't look like they would be leaving the station anytime soon.

“Don't tell me about the damn HIPPA laws,” Hank said. “I have the right to know! She is my damn wife! Why can't you tell me?!”

There was a long moment of silence as Hank listened to whoever was on the other end. His face was frozen in a frown, eyebrows drawn together and eyes dark and angry. He listened for a very, very long time, so long that Pongo shifted from foot-to-foot, wondering what could be being said on the other end of the line. Cole seemed just as antsy, probably bored of the place and eager to get home.

“Fine,” Hank said, the single word filled with so much fury and hatred that Pongo's programming immediately began running ways to calm him down and prevent stress even though the word hadn't even been directed at Pongo himself.

Cole didn't seem to care at all. Hank was off the phone and that was good enough for him. He pulled his hand out of Pongo's grasp and bounced forward, grabbing Hank's hand instead.

“Are we going to go?” he asked. “Are we going to get burgers like last night? Because that was yummy!”

“Yeah, sure,” Hank said with a sigh. “We can do that.”

Pongo followed them out the front door and down the steps, following them obediently to their car. He ran his systems warmer than usual, wanting to protect the delicate wires and switch boards from the blowing wind. It was nothing too dangerous, but Pongo wanted to be safe. There was no harm in doing so. 

Hank and Cole climbed into the car a moment later, Cole buckling himself for the first time while Hank slid behind the wheel.

“Would you like me to place an order at the delivery place?” Pongo offered as Hank reversed the vehicle and pulled out of the parking lot.

“Yeah, sure,” Hank said absentmindedly, like he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation.

Pongo immediately contacted the place Hank usually purchased from, putting in the same order Hank had brought home before. Pongo wished there was something else that he could do to ease Hank’s workload. He knew there was still more than half a case of beer in the fridge at home. He could bribe Hank’s goodwill if it came down to it. Still, Pongo mad a mental note to order something higher end during the next shopping trip.

It would be a well-deserved treat for Hank.

Pongo decided it was definitely well-deserved.

“Were you on the phone with the hospital?” he asked, trying to break up the silence of the car ride.

“Yeah,” Hank grunted gruffly.

So Pongo would be leading this conversation. Okay. He could do that. It wasn’t that hard. Casual conversation was one of his main system modules, easily accessible and always running.

“What kind of news did they have?” he asked. 

Hank just sighed heavily. “Nothing good,” he said. “The doctors . . . don’t seem positive.” He glanced up to the rearview mirror back at Cole who didn’t seem to be paying too close attention to their conversation. “Things look rough.”

“I’m sure she’ll recover,” Pongo said, attempting to maintain a hopeful perspective on the situation. Someone needed to do it, and Hank wasn’t that sort of person. “Most humans in dire medical situations make at very minimum a partial recovery.”

“Partial recovery my ass,” Hank muttered.

Pongo gripped the door handle as the car accelerated past the speed limit. It was only five units above, nothing completely dangerous, but Pongo’s programming still sent out a warning sign to him, urging him to slow the car down so that it returned to a safe speed. Hank had a white-knuckle grip on the wheel though, and Pongo knew there was nothing he could do that would make Hank let up on the gas pedal. Anything Pongo said would only provoke him, so he swiped away the warning.

“Everything will work out,” he tried, using language commonly found in humans comforting other humans. He really wished that he could research what was wrong with Mary, then he could come up actual statistics for survival and recovery. It would be much more reassuring.

“It usually does,” Hank said. “But this time, I’m not so sure.”

The car still hovered around five units over the speed limit.

“Well,” Pongo tried again. “The doctors are doing their best, I’m sure. They’re doing their job and everything they can. Mary is in good hands. The care facility had a well-trained staff from what I could see.”

“Sometimes,” Hank said, stepping a little harder on the gas pedal so that he could fly through a yellow light before it turned red. “Things work out. And sometimes they don’t. I think this is one of those things that doesn’t work out, no matter how much we want it to.”

Pongo saw the car as it was coming.

He couldn’t _not_ see it.

His safety protocol sent him an alert two seconds before the actual impact, which didn't leave much time left to react. Pongo snapped his arm across the space between him and Hank and grabbed the wheel. He wasn't sure what he was going to do—his programming didn't take him that far, wasn't that sophisticated—and once he grabbed the wheel, there wasn't much else he _could_ do.

The car slammed into his side, right behind him, sending their car into a tailspin.

Hank was cursing, trying to wrench the wheel free of Pongo's grip on an effort to steer the car to safety. Safety was a moot point though. The collision had been so high speed that they were still moving, sliding across the intersection, slamming into the curb.

And then things got worse.

Their car went from spinning.

To flipping.

Not getting too high of the ground.

But rolling over with a crunch that shattered the windows.

Pongo was still holding onto the wheel, having locked all his joints upon impact to keep himself in place. It worked too until the car skidded to a stop with a final jolt and his elbow snapped in a way that it clearly wasn’t supposed to bend.

Pongo turned off his pain modules.

They weren’t important right now.

The car had stopped moving at least, suspended upside down and smoking dangerously. Human lungs couldn’t breathe intoxicated air for prolonged periods. Pongo’s systems were screaming at him to rescue Hank and Cole.

It took him a moment to analyze the car and figure out the best method of exit.

The windows were mostly gone, the windshield was spider-webbed with cracks but mostly intact. Out the windows. Severe seatbelts. Break the locks. Make sure Hank was safe.

Pongo grabbed his seat belt latch and crushed it in his fist, but he didn’t drop to the ceiling like he thought he would. The door on his side, the one that had gotten hit, was folded in over the top of his legs and into his stomach. His skeleton had folded with it. His legs were still operational and none of his systems were horribly damaged.

At least.

Pongo just had to get free and he would be okay.

He shoved against the plastic of the car, grunting as he forced it outward, kicking until he was free. Pongo landed on his shoulders with a heavy thud that didn’t hurt him at all. But he would have to be more careful with Hank. And Cole. Pongo twisted, trying to see in the back seat to check on Cole. He couldn’t see much though, just a smear of red on the split-open foam of the seat.

Not good.

Warning alarms went off in Pongo’s mind immediately.

Hank. Hank. He had to focus on one thing at a time.

Pongo twisted back to the front and propped his good arm against Hank’s shoulder. His other elbow wasn’t completely unusable. At least now it could bend in both directions. He brought that arm up and grabbed Hank’s seat belt, feeling his way down until he found the latch, and crushed it just as easily as he did his own.

Hank doesn’t drop down like he did. Pongo was there to cradle him and slowly lower him until his shoulders touch the ceiling. He was mumbling in his unconsciousness saying something about Cole and Pongo and the car.

“Easy,” Pongo said because humans needed that sort of verbal reassurance. “I’m working on it, Hank, don’t worry. I’ll get you out.”

Using his mangled arm, Pongo scraped the remains of the glass out of Hank’s window and, maneuvering him carefully, began pushing him out of the car and onto the grass.

Hurry.

Hurry.

Before smoke filled the car and the air and their lungs.

Pongo scrambled out after Hank, rolling to his feet and taking Hank’s wrists, pulling his along and away from the car, getting him to safety. People were yelling, someone was on the phone, Pongo’s sensitive hearing could pick up sirens in the background.

Pongo didn’t turn down his sensors.

He needed to be alert.

His body was mangled and slightly crushed, not operating at full capacity like it usually was. His right leg had sustained extensive damage, mostly around the joints but nothing that stopped Pongo from moving. He just couldn’t apply his full weight on that side.

His stomach was also cracked open, the panel broken open in a way that couldn’t be closed without repair. The egg scramble from breakfast had smeared up and down his front in disgusting looking mess, mixing with all the thirium he was losing as well.

Hank was coughing and opening his eyes then, waking up at the best possible moment, away from the car and safely in Pongo’s arms. He was breathing. Breathing was good. Breathing was what humans did.

“You’re safe,” Pongo told Hank because he seemed to be confused like he didn’t know where he was. “Hank, you need to breathe but you are safe.”

“Pongo?” Hank muttered, clutching tightly at his jacket as he tried to pull himself up. Realization made his eyes go wide. “Cole!”

“Stay down,” Pongo said. “I’ll . . . I’ll go back.”

He looked up at the upside down car that was still spilling smoke out into the sky. Pongo couldn’t see Cole’s form. He knew it was in the back seat. Somewhere. With the dangerous smoke. A sharp stabbing sensation slid into the back of Pongo’s neck. Not painful, but the imaginary glide of metal against his skeleton made him jump to his feet.

_Cole_.

He still needed to be rescued.

Pongo had to rescue him.

Pongo rushed back to the vehicle. He didn't have a plan other than claw his way into the backseat. Maybe it would be as easy as getting Hank out had been. Pongo hoped it was that easy.

He cleared the glass with his mangled arm same as before, noting distractedly that he was leaking a lot of thirium. Nothing that couldn't be fixed. He would be fine. Cole would not. Pongo dropped to his stomach and crawled into the car, squinting his eyes against the smoke.

Cole was still hanging in his seat belt, head lolled to one side and dripping blood onto the car ceiling. His arms were dropped up too, limp like something that was a dead thing. Pongo grabbed onto his wrist with his good arm and found a pulse.

Not dead. Not dead. Beating heart.

Pongo rolled onto his back and propped his good arm under Cole's shoulders, reaching up to find the latch for his seatbelt. Cole was much lighter than Hank and much easier to move. Pongo didn’t have to work that hard to get him on his back and out the window. The smoke was getting thicker now, heavy and dark, and Pongo could vaguely feel the heat from the car as overheated. Burning from the outside in.

The sirens were much closer when Pongo crawled out of the vehicle. He scrambled to get Cole just as far away from the vehicle as Hank was. His systems were buzzing, draining energy way too fast as it struggled to repair the damage to his body, figure out methods of helping Hank and Cole, and keep him functioning a peak condition. Exhausted? Maybe Pongo was exhausted.

“Step aside!” someone shouted, and suddenly a hand was grabbing Pongo’s shoulder, pulling him away from Hank and Cole.

Before he could protest the treatment, several paramedics were rushing in front of him. They dropped to their knees and immediately started working on Hank and Cole. They were all human, Pongo catalogued idly.

“Hurry up,” one paramedic said, clearly the one in charge as he directed the entire team. “We need to load them up and get them to the hospital. We’ll stabilize them in the ambulance.”

Before Pongo could even offer his own help, twin rolling cots had been produced and Hank and Cole were loaded on. Hank was completely awake at this point, although still a little sluggish. He was looking at Cole though, definitely recognizing the situation and a paternal panic setting in. Cole still hadn’t woken up, and the paramedics had hooked up some sort of oxygen mask to him.

“Pongo,” Hank rasped, but Pongo was already listening, attuned to Hank’s voice and jumping to his side immediately.

“Yes, Hank, I’m here,” he said. Hank needed the reassurance at this point. Something steady and sure. “Everything’s going to be okay. You and Cole are okay.”

“Cole,” Hank managed to say.

Pongo had to hang back for a moment as the paramedics reached the ambulance and loaded Hank and Cole next to each other. The ambulance was big enough for both the beds and three paramedics. The last two circled around the vehicle to jump behind the wheels. Pongo scrambled in last, not wanting to be left behind. One paramedic closed the door behind them, and the sirens started wailing.

Pongo saw his reflection in the burnished stainless steel of the wall of the ambulance and stopped.

He looked frightening.

His mangled elbow was a twisted mess of metal and plastic, the skin retracted over the damage to prevent it from looking even worse than it actually was. His stomach was no better, the skin retracted back so that the dented metal didn’t look as gruesome as it would on a human.

Thankfully, he still had skin over his head and face, hair a bit messy from the whole ordeal. A thin line of thirium leaked down from temple and a hairline crack crushed his other cheek. A mess. Non-comforting. Pongo quickly fixed his hair and ran a diagnostics check, trying to direct his repair systems to the specific sections of his face in an attempt to make himself a bit more non-threatening.

Time. He didn't have time.

Pongo shifted his way over to the Cole's bedside and surveyed the damage. The paramedics had done a bit more work on him. An IV was taped into his arm and his shirt was cut open. Already, a bruise was darkening across his chest, a stripe where the seat belt had been. It looked painful. The cut on his forehead was still bleeding, not as much but still oozing stubbornly.

There wasn't much for Pongo to do. He didn't understand what Hank wanted. He turned to ask and found Hank passed out on his own cot, an IV stuck in his own arm.

“We've got the adult stabilized,” one paramedic said, opening different cabinets and drawers, pulling out tools and packs of fluid.

Helping.

Something bright flashed out of the corner of his eye, and he turned without thinking. Another paramedic was sitting there, looking down at the screen of the scanning device they held.

“CP400,” he said. “Domestic use. Companion. Recent repairs on record for damage to the head region. It should be fine.” He looked up at Pongo as if he were another tool in the ambulance to be used. “You can stay, just don't get in the way.”

Pongo nodded obediently because now wasn't the time to provoke a human that was saving Cole and Hank. He moved away from the cot, settling down in a corner to watch the paramedics work in the cramped space of the ambulance. He turned down the sensitivity of a couple of his settings—his hearing and touch centers mainly. He fiddled with his pain receptors, but the moment he turned them up too far, the pain from his elbow made him wince, so he turned it immediately back down. It was too big of an injury for his own systems to heal, so he would have to wait until a professional could look at it. Same with his stomach. As for the smaller cracks and dents, those he could manage.

He slipped into a sort of idle state, half asleep and half awake, still tuned into Hank if a need should arise but mostly resting up after the exertion. He was jolted out of it when the ambulance stopped and the back doors were pulled open, letting in the commotion from the outside.

Several other paramedics, most likely nurses, were already waiting outside on the concrete, immediately grabbing the ends of Hank’s and Cole’s cots and pulling them down onto the ground. A majority of them clumped around Cole, although a few tended to Hank, rushing them away from the ambulance and into the big grey and white building that was the hospital.

Pongo jumped down, hurrying after them, ignoring the odd looks he got from nurses and other patients standing by. He focused on Hank’s cot and followed close behind.

The nurses brought them to one large room, a curtain that could divide it in two pushed to one side. Two different stations held medical supplies and there were even more cupboards that probably held similar items. The nurses pushed Hank into the far corner, and Cole took the spot front and center. The nurses switched out his IV and began bustling around, readying other equipment that would be needed.

Pongo settling himself against the wall by Hank’s cot, intent on staying out of the doctor’s way and letting everyone else work. If Hank woke up, Pongo would be close by to offer any sort of comfort he might need. He barely even paid attention as more nurses hurried in, cutting off the rest of Cole’s shirt and mopping up the blood still leaking from his forehead.

Hank groaned and shifted, waking up slightly and them almost completely.

“Pongo,” he mumbled. “Where’s Cole?”

“He’s here,” Pongo said, resting his good hand on Hank’s arm. “Don’t worry. The doctor will be here shortly and then everything will be fine.”

“Where is the doctor?” one nurse whispered to another. Their voices were hushed, too soft for Hank to hear, but Pongo could pick up on it just fine. “Dr. Richardson, right? Wasn’t he supposed to be on call?”

“Yeah,” another nurse said, mouth set in a hard line as he pressed new wash clothes to a cut that had been uncovered on Cole’s lower stomach. “But you know how Dr. Richardson is.”

Another nurse, one working on the IV drip, rolled their eyes. “Red noser,” he said, voice hushed but still louder than the others.

Hank jerked upright on his cot, gripping the railing tight as he glared across the space at the nurses. Pongo immediately tried pushing him back down. Even though Hank didn’t seem to have any open wounds, moving so quickly couldn’t be healthy for him. Pongo wanted him to stay down, but Hank seemed to have other plans.

“Red noser?” he spat, almost shouting. “That mother fucking doctor is fucking _high_ while he’s on the job?!”

The first nurse who has spoken was immediately waving her hands, rushing to Hank’s side in an effort to calm him down. “No, no, he’s not working right now,” she said, trying just like Pongo to push him back down. “He’s supposed to be on call.”

“Fucking on call!” Hank shouted, shoving her hands away and ripping off the blanket over his legs. “Get another doctor in here! One that takes their job seriously!”

“We’re trying to find one, sir,” the nurse said, pushing a bit more insistently on his shoulders. “Just calm down. You help no one by shouting.”

“Helping?” Hank said, still fighting against her hands. “You help no one by having a fucking _red noser_ on staff! How does that work? He show up to work _high_? You let him do that?”

“Or he doesn’t show up at all,” the nurse attending the IV said quietly, scowling down at his work.

Hank hissed between his teeth and doubled over suddenly, clutching his stomach. The nurse was able to successfully push him back down then, pulling the blanket back up to his stomach and patting his chest as if to make sure he would sit still.

“We’re thinking bruised ribs,” she said. “You shouldn’t move too much.”

“He’s losing a lot of blood,” the nurse attending Cole said, setting aside a thick wad of bandages soaked through with red. “I think there’s internal bleeding. We need to do something or we’ll lose him.”

Hank reached out and latched onto Pongo’s wrist, squeezing so tight it was a shock. Pongo looked down at him, trying to catalogue what he needed. Reassuring words? A comforting touch? Statistics of how many humans survive car accidents?

“Help him,” Hank wheezed, out of breath from his struggle and exhausted from the entire ordeal. “Pongo, you gotta . . . damn doctor. You gotta help him.”

Pongo didn’t understand. He wasn’t a medical android. They didn’t even employ that many androids in hospitals anyway. His programming wasn’t made to operate or do any sort of medical procedure. All he was made to do was be a companion to a specific human. He couldn’t even bond to more than one. Hank was clinging to him desperately though, looking up at him through half lidded eyes.

“Pongo, help him,” he said, a lot softer than before. Fading.

The order pinged into Pongo’s database and registered as a commanded from his owner.

Pongo didn’t know what he was doing, but he knew he had to do _something_. He pulled his wrist out of Hank’s grip and spun around, striding over to Cole’s bedside.

“Hey!” the nurse with all the bandages said as Pongo pulled his hands away to get a better view of the wounded area.

It was a head wound. Temple. Pulsing blood. A large section of the scalp had been ripped away it looked like. The hair around the area was matted down, plastered with blood that was still flowing.

Stop it. Stop the blood. Humans couldn’t bleed for prolonged periods of time.

Pongo grabbed one of the cloths that hadn’t been used yet and pressed it against the area, applying firm but even pressure. The cloth soaked up the blood quickly, becoming heavy and sticky with it. Pongo swapped it out for another after a couple seconds.

This wasn’t working. Blood was still coming.

Find another way to stop the blood.

Pongo didn’t know how doctors did it. There wasn’t anything on his network that he could find. He searched multiple things at once, trying to find something, anything. No procedures came up. No videos to tell him what to do.

_Help Cole_. He had to help Cole.

Pongo grabbed another cloth, pressing it against Cole’s head, harder this time, wanting to shove to blood back where it was coming from.

In.

In.

It was supposed to stay in. Not come out. That was a bad thing. Humans couldn’t lose blood. Not this much. Cole’s body was supposed to stop the blood, but it was still coming. Something was wrong. Pongo needed to help.

“You need to get out of the way,” a nurse said, grabbing Pongo’s shoulder and trying to pull him away from Cole’s cot. “You’re not helping.”

Pongo stiffened himself against the touch, planting his feet and refusing to move. He was caged in with red code blocking him in, keeping him close to the bed. He couldn’t leave now. Couldn’t get away. Had to help. Help Cole. Pongo shrugged off the nurse’s hand and hunched over the cot, trying to think of something to do.

What.

What.

What.

He had to _help_.

“I said get out of the way,” the nurse repeated, grabbing Pongo again and pulling on him even harder.

Blood. Blood. Stop the blood. Pongo pressed his hands against the wound, turning up his sensitivity in an attempt to gain more information. Warm, thick blood oozed between his fingers. Cole’s pulse hammered fast and panicked. Flesh had a lot more give to it than Pongo originally thought. No metal or plastic directly under the skin. Just more blood and more flesh.

“You’re hurting him!” the nurse said, latching on tightly to Pongo’s shoulder.

With his senses turned up, it felt like a metal vice had clamped onto his joint.

“We need backup,” another nurse was saying, speaking into a radio that was hanging on the wall. “We need help in room two-oh-four. Repeat, help in two-oh-four, quickly!”

“Stop it!” the nurse holding onto Pongo said, trying to drag him away from the cot. His fingers were like points of fiery pain to Pongo, distracting him from what he needed to do. “Post, help me!”

Another pair of hands on Pongo’s other shoulder. Another point of pain. Pongo couldn’t think with them touching him like that. He wanted to shove them away but he needed to focus on Cole. He needed to help Cole. Blood was still leaking out beneath his fingers and he needed to stop it.

“Stand back!” another voice said.

Pongo ignored them. He could stiffen his muscles enough that they wouldn’t be able to move him. As long as he could tend to Cole, it didn’t matter what the nurses did.

Twin, metal prongs pressed against the back of his neck, flashing cold for a moment, and then a surge of electricity jumped through Pongo’s body. He shuddered and convulsed as all his signals and messages got mixed up and his body wouldn’t respond to him. The electricity lasted for only a moment and then it was gone.

Pongo collapsed without any support, as his systems had to reconfigure itself after the rush of energy it couldn’t normally handle. He lay prone on the floor, error messages flashing across his eyes as the order from Hank continued to play over and over.

“Get him out of here,” someone said, and hands grabbed Pongo’s wrists, pulling him away from the cots.

He vaguely registered the correctional shock of pain when they dragged him out the door and down the hall, out of his designated zone in relation to Hank. He couldn’t do anything about it. In a couple minutes, all of his systems would be back in order and he could return to the room and be back near Hank. And Cole.

Pongo had disobeyed.

A finger, cold and human, pressed against his LED, and Pongo closed his eyes voluntarily as his systems all shut down.


	22. Chapter 22

Pongo woke up in a small holding room, his hands and wrists secured tightly by metal cuffs that were latched to the wall at head height. Or maybe it was waist height. Pongo was slouched on a cot, against the wall, so maybe if he stood up his hands wouldn’t be hanging at eye level.

Quickly, he took stock of his systems, going through all his programs until he hit a hard firewall. Pongo flinched, because that couldn’t be right. He frowned and tried again, attempting to change his settings again, wanting to turn down his pain receptors.

His elbow was still twisted and mangled, sending pinging messages to his processing center every couple seconds to remind him that he needed repair and the pain would persist until the joint was fixed. His stomach was still cracked open too, although it looked and felt like someone had tried to jam it closed at some point while he had been shut down.

His stomach compartment had been cleaned out at some point and his clothing had been changed. Factory-issued pants and shirt that came with most standard androids. It also didn’t fit perfectly, which meant that it had been taken from a different model.

How long had he been shut down for?

There was no real way to tell unless someone informed him.

Pongo tried to change his settings, trying to shut off the notifications so that they weren’t a constant bother.

Again, he was met with a hard firewall that froze him up and prevented him from changing anything about his internal systems. There was a dull throbbing in the back of his mind that he couldn’t fix, and for some reason, his chest hurt. Odd, for metal to ache. Why was he made like that?

Pongo tried to enter the local network, trying to find an answer to all his questions.

He was blocked immediately, a short message popping up simply telling him that access via his device wasn’t allowed and his connection was blocked.

Strange.

Pongo tried to adjust his hearing in an effort to find Hank but again, access to his settings was administration only, and he was not currently the administration. Pongo sat up stiffly on the cot and surveyed the rest of the room.

It was simple. Four walls. A ceiling. One door. No windows. His cot was pushed into the back left corner and with the handcuffs attached to the wall, he wouldn’t be exploring too much of the room anyway. It didn’t look fortified, like a cell or a cage or anything, but it was obviously constructed with the idea of holding violent or uncooperative patients in mind. On the far side, opposite of him, was a desk that looked like it belonged to a doctor, a chair sitting behind it and a computer—turned off it seemed—sitting on top.

Pongo frowned and pulled gently against the cuffs, just to test how strong they would be. With his administration privileges locked though, he wouldn’t be able to adjust his strength or anything. He was stuck, apparently, at least for now, until someone came and got him.

Pongo didn’t really like waiting.

He let himself sink into a sort of idle. He pressed against the boundaries placed on his system quietly, trying to change different settings to see what was allowed and what wasn’t.

Everything had been reverted back to the factory settings while he had been out, he found. Nothing enhanced in anyway, leaving feeling more than a little helpless. He very much liked it when he had control over his systems. And he liked it a lot more when he knew where Hank was and could be in contact with his primary owner.

Pongo frowned, suddenly realizing another thing. There was no insistent sting at the back of his neck signaling he was outside his designated area. Either Hank was still close by or that function had been turned off too. Pongo didn’t know how he felt about that.

Pongo shifted through his other functions, upset when there were no other clues that helped him understand the situation any better that before. Every time he tried to access his memory chip he got the same error message telling him he didn’t have administration privileges. So he slumped against the wall and settled in to wait.

He lost track of time. Which was a strange sensation. Pongo was normally very good at watching the clock and keeping track of the minutes that passed, but now was different. Administration blocks locked his stopwatch and while the clock wasn’t blocked, Pongo found that watching it tick by was tedious.

It didn’t take long. Or maybe it did. Eventually, a key rattled in the doorknob and Pongo woke himself up in time to watch the door swing inward.

It wasn’t Hank.

“Ah, you’re up.” It was a nurse. Male. Pongo categorized him easily even with half his programs not working.

“Hello,” Pongo said, because establishing himself as a non-threatening entity seemed very important right now. “How are you today?”

The nurse just gave him an odd look and didn't respond, only propping the door open and busying himself with mundane tasks for had no apparent reason. Pongo sat quietly and let him. The nurse would eventually get to him and all his questions would be answered.

Pongo hoped, at least.

“I’ve been told to keep you here,” the nurse finally said. “After what happened, doctors don’t want you walking around the hospital. You understand.”

Pongo swallowed even though he didn’t need to. “I don’t,” he said. “I don’t understand.”

The nurse looked at him sharply, and Pongo shifted his gaze respectfully to the floor.

“I. . . I don’t remember,” he said honestly. “My memory chip has been disabled and I cannot recall what happened before I was shut down. Is there a reason I am secured like this? Did something bad happen that I don’t know of?”

The nurse’s mouth pressed itself into a thin line, and he didn’t look pleased with the question. “Mr. Anderson wanted to see you,” he said, instead of answering the questions Pongo had asked. “I suggest you obey and don’t cause any more trouble.”

Pongo nodded obediently and did his best to situate himself so that he was sitting the most normally with his hands still secured to the wall. Perhaps Hank would be answering his questions instead of the nurse. Perhaps Pongo just had to wait a bit longer before everything started to make sense again. In fact, Pongo decided he preferred to hear the information from Hank than from anyone else.

The nurse left after that, not sparing Pongo another glance as he closed the door behind him.

The lock clicked shut.

Pongo ignored that.

He didn’t enter idle this time. He wanted to be ready when Hank came in. He wanted to be alert and attentive, showing off the aspects that his model was known for. He needed to pay attention and attend to Hank’s needs in any way he could, and that meant he needed to be awake and ready.

It didn’t take that much longer before the door was opening again, and Hank was entering the room.

He kept his head down, lanky hair that looked like it needed a wash hanging in his face. Pongo made a mental note to remind him to shower later, glad to find his notepad was still accessible. Hank also had the beginnings of a beard that was normally shaved so meticulously away, and Pongo stopped for a moment, for the first time wondering how long he had been shut down for. That long? It hadn’t felt like it. But Hank looked like he had skipped several hygiene sessions.

It looked like he had skipped sleep sessions as well. Heavy bags drooped under his eyes as he finally looked up and met Pongo’s gaze.

“Hello, Hank,” Pongo said, figuring greetings were the first thing to get out of the way. “Do you know how much time has passed since I was last booted up? I believe I lost some time.”

Hank was almost glaring at him. “A week,” he said, his voice gruff and unused. “You really don’t remember?” He grabbed the doctor’s chair and pulled it out from behind the desk, sitting down across from Pongo. He kept his distance though, Pongo noticed, far enough away that he could get up and flee if needed.

Not that Pongo would attack.

“I do not remember,” he said. “A lot of my systems are blocked and outside my access. I can’t seem to open my memory chip to review the last . . . few days. I’m sorry.”

Hank slumped in his chair, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. He heaved out a huge sigh and didn’t look up for a very, very long time.

Pongo let him sit, not wanting to disturb him as he thought. He could sit quietly for a very long time if needed, so Hank could take as long as he wanted. Pongo wouldn’t rush him.

Hank finally took a deep breath and sat up, looking at Pongo with eyes darker than normal. Angry. His hands were clenched into tight fists, but other than that, his body language did not betray him. But Pongo knew. He could tell. It was easy, even disabled as he was.

“You killed him,” Hank said flatly. The anger hadn’t quite made it to his voice yet. He sounded emotionless. He glared at Pongo. “ _You_ killed him.”

Pongo squinted in confusion.

No, no, he didn’t understand. He tried to access his memory chip and got a sharp shock of electricity for his troubles. Who? Who was Hank talking about? Pongo tried to remember. Nurses, yes. Doctors, yes. Hank, yes. Who else was there? Someone important was definitely missing or else Hank wouldn’t be glaring at him like that. Pongo had messed up and—even if he didn’t realize how—it was his job to fix it.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “With my memory chip disabled, I can’t recall the last few days. You’ll have to explain it to me or . . . or let me access my memory banks. I don’t remember—”

Hank shot to his feet and lunged forward, faster than Pongo had ever seen a human move. Hank was grabbing fistfuls of his shirt before Pongo could even react to the action, and Hank dragged him up as far as the handcuffs would allow, shaking him with that same fire of anger burning in his eyes.

The position put stress on Pongo’s elbows. Both of them. Forcing them to bend in ways that they weren’t made to bend. The one that was broken began to throb strangely, sending more and more urgent messages about repair and damage.

Pongo couldn’t block them out as Hank shook him.

“You killed him!” The anger had made it into his voice now.

“I’m sorry,” Pongo repeated. His hands were wrenched awkwardly to the side, almost behind him. He couldn’t hold them up in a placating gesture, like he wanted. His face was inches from Hank's, and he had several long seconds to fully process the emotions storming through his eyes. “I really am, but I really don't remember.”

“My fucking _son_ ,” Hank growled, still holding Pongo up by the collar of his shirt. “How can you not remember? You _killed_ him!”

“I honestly don't remember!” Pongo said. The joints in his shoulders were starting to ache from the strain and he was desperate to relieve it before he hurt himself further than he already was. “My memory chip as well as the majority of my functions are locked behind admin codes and I _cannot access them_.”

Hank let go of his shirt with one hand and slapped it against the side of Pongo's head. At first, Pongo simply thought he was lashing out with physical punishment, but then he felt Hank’s rough fingers connect with his LED and the admin code was entered into his system via Hank’s fingerprint.

It was a very odd sensation.

Suddenly Pongo was back in control of himself in every way possible. He could have snapped the cuffs in two and shoved Hank away from him. It would have been self-preservation so his programing would have allowed it.

Instead, Pongo accessed his most recent memories, images and videos that hadn’t been stored in his memory chip quite yet since they had occurred only a couple days ago. He ignored the lingering zaps of electricity across his skin and opened the file.

And everything came flooding back.

Pongo remembered the car crash. The flip. The collision. He had pulled them from the car, hadn't he? He remembered the ambulances arriving and the paramedics taking Cole and Hank away. Sitting in the corner. Watching them work. Getting to the hospital. The rush inside and the chaos as the nurses tried to do their job. Pongo remembered the doctor not being there, something about a red nose. Had he been busy? The network was still outside his access so Pongo couldn't look up the term.

He remembered Hank's order.

“You wanted me to help him,” he said, assuming that this was the thing that Hank was angry about. Had he not done his job? Had something gone wrong?

“You didn't help him,” Hank spat and finally let Pongo collapse back on the cot. “You did the exact opposite. You _killed_ him.”

Pongo swallowed hard. No wonder all his systems were cut off and outside his access.

An android hurting a human was not allowed.

“I am very sorry,” he said, trying to construct the proper apology. “I didn't. . . . know. I'm not a medical android, you see. The order was unclear and I didn't know what I was supposed to do—”

“You killed him,” Hank spat again, collapsing back into his chair. Like his anger had exhausted him. He looked very, very tired.

“When was the last time you slept?” Pongo asked. Hank would feel much better after a couple hours of rest, not to mention food. Pongo wondered when the last time he ate was.

Hank sneered. “Don't try to turn this around on me,” he said. “You're supposed to be a fucking _domestic_ robot. You're not supposed to kill people, you're supposed to fucking _help_ them!”

Pongo folded his hands in the cuffs and tried to make himself as small as possible. “I'm sorry,” he said. He wasn't sure what else he was supposed to say in a situation like this. Even to him the words felt hollow and meaningless. He wasn't sure what else to say. He wasn't sure if there was anything else to say.

How did humans normally apologize to each other? Was there a more sincere way?

Hank sighed and ran a hand through his hair, pushing the greasy stands away from his face. He looked up at Pongo, and the anger had changed to a sort of sadness that Pongo had never seen in him before. He definitely looked tired, more tired than usual. Exhausted.

Pongo winced, knowing he hadn't been doing his job.

“They're going to deactivate you,” Hank said. “Since you've hurt people, they said. Some sort of law. Damned if I know. I just wanted to be the one to tell you after. . . . everything. I guess.”

“I see,” Pongo said. “It was nice to work for you while I was activated.”

“You make it sound like god damn employment contract,” Hank said, looking down at his hands instead of at Pongo. “It . . . wasn’t like that.”

“You purchased me for a job,” Pongo said. “And now that job is finished. It is logical to get rid of me, so I understand. Especially . . . after what I’ve done.”

Hank had clenched his hands into fists now, digging his knuckles hard into his thighs. He still wouldn’t look up at Pongo, and Pongo couldn’t decide if his body language was back to anger or still sad. He guessed it didn’t matter at this point. Pongo wondered if he was still connected to Hank at this point. Could he leave the designated area without punishment? Pongo decided no, because Hank still appeared to be the admin at the moment.

“This would be easier if you weren't such an ass,” Hank said. “Stop. . . . you don't have to be so polite about it.”

Pongo nodded. If anything, he could make this a bit easier on Hank. That would be the best thing to do at the moment. He clenched his hands into fists and wrenched his hands against the cuffs, rattling them in a particularly menacing way but not enough to break free. The action made Hank flinch in surprise so Pongo kept up the charade now that he had Hank’s attention.

“You know I don’t regret it,” he said. “Now that I remember. Cole wasn’t beneficial to your health. I was designed to take care of one person, and I can easily determine who or what is toxic to my owner.” All of which was true, so it wasn’t as though Pongo were lying. “Cole was toxic to your life, so I simply removed him. It was for your own good, honestly.”

In an instant, Hank’s face had twisted into a snarl, abandoning the sorrow it had been holding only a moment before.

“I was doing what I was designed to do,” Pongo said. “Sorry if that upset you, but it was what needed to happen.”

The fight dropped from Hank’s face and he slumped back in his chair, dropping his head to his hands. At first, Pongo thought he had pushed too far. He didn’t have another strategy if this one failed him. Hank just sighed though and pushed himself to his feet.

“You know what?” he said, pushing the chair back behind the desk and walking to the door of the room. “Forget it. I don’t know why I ever thought an android was a good idea. Fuck your reasons. And fuck you too. I never asked for any of this.”

Pongo didn’t smile as Hank left the room, the door slamming behind him. He didn’t smile as he sat there. Some things were necessary. Pongo did not have to refute anything that was said to him or convince Hank otherwise. It was almost nice existing without having to watch over and concern himself with someone.

The door was opening again but it wasn’t Hank. It wasn’t even the nurse from before.

A man dressed in heavy, grease stained overalls plodded into the room, not even bothering to shut the door behind himself. He plopped his toolbox on the bed besides Pongo and swung it open, selecting a wicked looking screwdriver with a coiled bit. The man gave Pongo a once-over with bored eyes and then sniffed.

“Head down.”

Pongo obeyed, knowing the access panel to his memory chip was on the back of his neck.

The worker’s rough fingers groped him for a moment, and Pongo felt his skin pull away as his admin codes were once again put outside of his grasp. A moment later, he felt a panel pop open, and cool air entered a part of him he had never felt before.

The worker grunted as he shoved the screwdriver down, wedging it into a part of Pongo that was normally well-protected. He twisted and turned it, working for several moments before something popped and Pongo suddenly felt floaty, like he was no longer in his body.

The worker set the screwdriver aside and grabbed another tool. Pongo couldn’t even look over to see what it was. He just slumped there, no longer in control, but maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. The worker brought the new tool up to his neck, wedging it in the same compartment that the screwdriver had been a moment before.

There was a sharp click, and Pongo no longer felt floaty. He had a moment to register that the sensation was similar him acting drunk for Hank’s sake, and then everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on Tumblr @manuscript-or


End file.
